MSB 


3 


SIMON  DALE 

By  ANTHONY  HOPE 
Author  of  "Phroso,"  "The  Heart  of  Princess  Osra/'Etc. 


"THIS,  MADAMK,  is  .%:.  DK  I-KRRENCOURT." — PAGE  152. 


SIMON  DALE 


BY 

ANTHONY  HOPE 

AUTHOR  OF 

"Phroso,"  "The  Heart  of  Princess  Osra,"  "The  Prisoner  of 
Zenda,"  etc. 


ILLUSTRATED 
BY 

.  ST.  JOHN  HARPER 


flew 
Frederick  A.  Stokes  Company 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright,  J897 
By  A.  H.  HAWKINS 

Copyright,  J897 
By  FREDERICK  A.  STOKES  COMPANY 


CONTENTS. 


CHAP.  PACK 

L  The  Child  of  Prophecy  \ 

II.  The  Way  of  Youth  J3 

III.  The  Music  of  the  World  25 

IV.  Cydaria  Revealed  37 
V.  I  am  Forbidden  to  Forget  50 

VI.  An  Invitation  to  Court  65 

VII.  What  came  of  Honesty  80 

VIII.  Madness,  Magic  and  Moonshine  95 

IX.  Of  Gems  and  Pebbles  109 

X.  Je  Viens,  Tu  Viens,  II  Vient  J24 

XI.  The  Gentleman  from  Calais  J39 

XII.  The  Deference  of  His  Grace  the  Duke          155 

XIII.  The  Meed  of  Curiosity  J7J 

XIV.  The  King's  Cup  J88 
XV.  M.  de  Perrencourt  Whispers  203 

XVI.  M.  de  Perrencourt  Wonders  2J8 

XVII.  What  Befell  My  Last  Guinea  234 

XVIII.  Some  Mighty  Silly  Business  25J 

XIX.  A  Night  on  the  Road  267 

XX.  The  Vicar's  Proposition  280 
XXI.  The  Strange  Conjuncture  of  Two  Gentle- 
men 293 

XXH.  The  Device  of  Lord  Carford  307 

XXIII.  A  Pleasant  Penitence  32J 

XXTV.  A  Comedy  Before  the  King  336 

XXV.  The  Mind  of  M.  de  Fontelles  349 

XXVL  I  Come  Home.  362 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


"This,  Madame,  is  M.  de  Perrencourt"  -         Frontispiece 

44 Caught  fay  her  pretty  ways  and  graceful  boldness "  -  \\ 

44  Again  her  laugh  sounded  above  me "-           •  123 

The  King's  Cup  -  200 

"  How  will  you  die,  Sir  ?  »  233 

"'Come  back/ I  cried"  254 

"IlVient"  305 

u Do  you  remember ?rf   ....  331 


Simon  Dale* 

jt 

CHAPTER  L 
The  Child  of  Prophecy* 

ONE  who  was  in  his  day  a  person  of  great  place  and 
consideration,  and  has  left  a  name  which  future  gen- 
erations shall  surely  repeat  so  long  as  the  world  may 
last,  found  no  better  rule  for  a  man's  life  than  that  he 
should  incline  his  mind  to  move  in  Charity,  rest  in 
Providence,  and  turn  upon  the  poles  of  Truth.  This 
condition,  says  he,  is  Heaven  upon  Earth  :  and  al- 
though what  touches  truth  may  better  befit  the  phi- 
losopher who  uttered  it  than  the  vulgar  and  unlearned, 
for  whom  perhaps  it  is  a  counsel  too  high  and  there- 
fore dangerous,  what  comes  before  should  surely  be 
graven  by  each  of  us  on  the  walls  of  our  hearts.  For 
any  man  who  lived  in  the  days  that  I  have  seen  must 
have  found  much  need  of  trust  in  Providence,  and  by 
no  whit  the  less  of  charity  for  men.  In  such  trust 
and  charity  I  have  striven  to  write ;  in  the  like  I  pray 
you  to  read. 

I,  Simon  Dale,  was  born  on  the  seventh  day  of  the 
seventh  month  in  the  year  of  Our  Lord  sixteen-hun- 
dred-and-forty-seven.  The  date  was  good  in  that  the 
Divine  Number  was  thrice  found  in  it,  but  evil  in  that 
it  fell  on  a  time  of  sore  trouble  both  for  the  nation  and 
for  our  own  house  ;  when  men  had  begun  to  go  about 


2  Simon  Dale. 

saying  that  if  the  King  would  not  keep  his  promises 
it  was  likely  that  he  would  keep  his  head  as  little, 
when  they  who  had  fought  for  freedom  were  suspect- 
ing that  victory  had  brought  new  tyrants,  when  the 
Vicar  was  put  out  of  his  cure,  and  my  father,  having 
trusted  the  King  first,  the  Parliament  afterwards,  and 
at  last  neither  the  one  nor  the  other,  had  lost  the 
greater  part  of  his  substance,  and  fallen  from  wealth 
to  straightened  means — such  is  the  common  reward  of 
an  honest  patriotism  wedded  to  an  open  mind.  How- 
ever, the  date,  good  or  bad,  was  none  of  my  doing, 
nor  indeed,  folks  whispered,  much  of  my  parents' 
either,  seeing  that  destiny  overruled  the  affair,  and 
Betty  Nasroth,  the  wise  woman,  announced  its  im- 
minence more  than  a  year  beforehand.  For  she  pre- 
dicted the  birth,  on  the  very  day  whereon  I  came  into 
the  world,  within  a  mile  of  the  parish  church,  of  a 
male  child  who — and  the  utterance  certainly  had  a 
lofty  sound  about  it — should  love  where  the  King 
loved,  know  what  the  King  hid,  and  drink  of  the 
King's  cup.  Now  inasmuch  as  none  lived  within  the 
limits  named  by  Betty  Nasroth,  save  on  the  one  side 
sundry  humble  labourers  whose  progeny  could  expect 
no  such  fate,  and  on  the  other  my  Lord  and  Lady 
Quinton,  who  were  wedded  but  a  month  before  my 
birthday,  the  prophecy  was  fully  as  pointed  as  it  had 
any  need  to  be,  and  caused  to  my  parents  no  small 
questionings.  It  was  the  third  clause  or  term  of  the 
prediction  that  gave  most  concern  alike  to  my  mother 
and  to  my  father ;  to  my  mother  because,  although  of 
discreet  mind  and  a  sound  Churchwoman,  she  was 
from  her  earliest  years  a  Rechabite,  and  had  never 
heard  of  a  king  that  drank  water,  and  to  my  father 
by  reason  of  his  decayed  estate,  which  made  it  im- 
possible for  him  to  contrive  how  properly  to  fit  me  for 
my  predestined  company.  "  A  man  should  not  drink 
the  King's  wine  without  giving  the  King  as  good," 


The  Child  of  Prophecy.  3 

my  father  reflected  ruefully.  Meanwhile  I,  troubling 
not  at  all  about  the  matter,  was  content  to  prove 
Betty  right  in  point  of  the  date,  and,  leaving  the  rest 
to  the  future,  achieved  this  triumph  for  her  most 
punctually.  Whatsoever  may  await  a  man  on  his  way 
through  the  world,  he  can  hardly  begin  life  better 
than  by  keeping  his  faith  with  a  lady. 

She  was  a  strange  old  woman,  this  Betty  Nasroth, 
and  would  likely  enough  have  fared  badly  in  the  time 
of  the  King's  father.  Now  there  was  bigger  game 
than  witches  afoot  and  nothing  worse  befell  her  than 
the  scowls  of  her  neighbours  and  the  frightened  mock- 
ery of  children.  She  made  free  reply  with  curses  and 
dark  mutterings,  but  me  she  loved  as  being  the  child 
of  her  vision,  and  all  the  more  because,  encountering 
her  as  I  rode  in  my  mother's  arms,  I  did  not  cry  but 
held  out  my  hands,  crowing  and  struggling  to  get  to 
her ;  whereat  suddenly,  and  to  my  mother's  great  ter- 
ror, she  exclaimed  "  Thou  see'st  Satan  ! "  and  fell  to 
weeping,  a  thing  which,  as  every  woman  in  the  parish 
knew,  a  person  absolutely  possessed  by  the  Evil  One 
can  by  no  means  accomplish  (unless  indeed  a  bare 
three  drops  squeezed  from  the  left  eye  may  usurp  the 
name  of  tears).  But  my  mother  shrank  away  from  her 
and  would  not  allow  her  to  touch  me  ;  nor  was  it  until 
I  had  grown  older  and  ran  about  the  village  alone  that 
the  old  woman,  having  tracked  me  to  a  lonely  spot, 
took  me  in  her  arms,  mumbled  over  my  head  some 
words  I  did  not  understand,  and  kissed  me.  That  a 
mole  grows  on  the  spot  she  kissed  is  but  a  fable — (for 
how  do  the  women  know  where  her  kiss  fell  save  by 
where  the  mole  grows? — and  that  is  to  reason  poorly,) 
— or  at  the  most  the  purest  chance.  Nay,  if  it  were 
more,  I  am  content ;  for  the  mole  does  me  no  harm, 
and  the  kiss,  as  I  hope,  did  Betty  some  good :  off  she 
went  straight  to  the  Vicar  (who  was  living  then  in  the 
cottage  of  my  Lord  Quinton's  gardener  and  exercising 


4  Simon  Dale* 

his  sacred  functions  in  a  secrecy  to  which  the  whole 
parish  was  privy)  and  prayed  him  to  let  her  partake  of 
the  Lord's  Supper;  a  request  that  caused  great  scan- 
dal to  the  neighbours  and  sore  embarrassment  to  the 
Vicar  himself,  who,  being  a  learned  man  and  deeply 
read  in  demonology;  grieved  from  his  heart  that  the 
witch  did  not  play  her  part  better. 

"  It  is,"  said  he  to  my  father,  "a  monstrous  lapse." 

"  Nay,  it  is  a  sign  of  grace,"  urged  my  mother. 

"  It  is,"  said  my  father  (and  I  do  not  know  whether 
he  spoke  perversely  or  in  earnest)  "a  matter  of  no 
moment." 

Now  being  steadfastly  determined  that  my  boyhood 
shall  be  less  tedious  in  the  telling  than  it  was  in  the 
living — for  I  always  longed  to  be  a  man  and  hated  my 
green  and  petticoat-governed  days — I  will  pass  forth- 
with to  the  hour  when  I  reached  the  age  of  eighteen 
years.  My  dear  father  was  then  in  Heaven  and  old 
Betty  had  found,  as  was  believed,  another  billet.  But 
my  mother  lived,  and  the  Vicar,  like  the  King,  had 
come  to  his  own  again ;  and  I  was  five  feet  eleven  in 
my  stockings,  and  there  was  urgent  need  that  I  should 
set  about  pushing  my  way  and  putting  money  in  my 
purse ;  for  our  lands  had  not  returned  with  the  King 
and  there  was  no  more  incoming  than  would  serve  to 
keep  my  mother  and  sisters  in  the  style  of  gentle- 
women. 

"And  on  that  matter,"  observed  the  Vicar,  stroking 
his  nose  with  his  forefinger,  as  his  habit  was  in  mo- 
ments of  perplexity,  "Betty  Nasroth's  prophecy  is  of 
small  service.  For  the  doings  on  which  she  touches 
are  likely  to  be  occasions  of  expense  rather  than 
sources  of  gain." 

"  They  would  be  money  wasted,"  said  my  mother, 
gently,  "one  and  all  of  them." 

The  Vicar  looked  a  little  doubtful. 

"  I  will  write  a  sermon  on  that  theme,"  said  he ;  for 


The  Child  of  Prophecy.  5 

this  was  with  him  a  favourite  way  out  of  an  argument. 
In  truth  the  Vicar  loved  the  prophecy,  as  a  quiet  stu- 
dent often  loves  a  thing  that  echoes  of  the  world  which 
he  has  shunned. 

"  You  must  write  down  for  me  what  the  King  says 
to  you,  Simon,"  he  told  me  once. 

"Suppose,  sir,"  I  suggested,  mischeviously,  "that  it 
should  not  be  fit  for  your  eye?" 

"Then  write  it,  Simon,"  he  answered,-  pinching  my 
ear,  "  for  my  understanding." 

It  was  well  enough  for  the  Vicar's  whimsical  fancy 
to  busy  itself  with  Betty  Nasroth's  prophecy,  half 
believing,  half  mocking,  never  forgetting  nor  disre- 
garding; but  I,  who  am  after  all  the  most  concerned, 
doubt  whether  such  a  dark  utterance  be  a  wholesome 
thing  to  hang  round  a  young  man's  neck.  The  dreams 
of  youth  grow  rank  enough  without  such  watering. 
The  prediction  was  always  in  my  mind,  alluring  and 
tantalising  as  a  teasing  girl  who  puts  her  pretty  face 
near  yours,  safe  that  you  dare  not  kiss  it.  What  it 
said  I  mused  on ;  what  it  said  not  I  neglected.  I 
dedicated  my  idle  hours  to  it,  and,  not  appeased,  it 
invaded  my  seasons  of  business.  Rather  than  seek 
my  own  path  I  left  myself  to  its  will  and  hearkened  for 
its  whispered  orders. 

"  It  was  the  same,"  observed  my  mother,  sadly, 
"with  a  certain  cook-maid  of  my  sister's.  It  was 
foretold  that  she  should  marry  her  master." 

"And  did  she  not?"  cried  the  Vicar,  with  ears  all 
pricked-up. 

"She  changed  her  service  every  year,"  said  my 
mother,  "seeking  the  likeliest  man,  until  at  last  none 
would  hire  her." 

"  She  should  have  stayed  in  her  first  service,"  said 
the  Vicar,  shaking  his  head. 

"  But  her  first  master  had  a  wife,"  retorted  my 
mother,  triumphantly. 


6  Simon  Dale. 

"  I  had  one  once  myself,"  said  the  Vicar. 

The  argument  with  which  his  widowhood  supplied 
the  Vicar  was  sound  and  unanswerable,  and  it  suited 
well  with  my  humour  to  learn  from  my  aunt's  cook- 
maid,  and  wait  patiently  on  fate.  But  what  avails  an 
argument,  be  it  ever  so  sound,  against  an  empty  purse? 
It  was  declared  that  I  must  seek  my  fortune  ;  yet  on 
the  method  of  my  search  some  difference  arose. 

"You  must  work,  Simon,"  said  my  sister  Lucy,  who 
was  betrothed  to  Justice  Barnard,  a  young  squire  of 
good  family  and  high  repute,  but  mighty  hard  on  idle 
vagrants,  and  free -with  the  stocks  for  revellers. 

"  You  must  pray  for  guidance,"  said  my  sister  Mary, 
who  was  to  wed  a  saintly  clergyman,  a  Prebend,  too, 
of  the  Cathedral. 

"  There  is,"  said  I  stoutly,  "  nothing  of  such  matters 
in  Betty  Nasroth's  prophecy." 

"  They  are  taken  for  granted,  dear  boy,"  said  my 
mother,  gently. 

The  Vicar  rubbed  his  nose. 

Yet  not  these  excellent  and  zealous  counsellors 
proved  right,  but  the  Vicar  and  I.  For  had  I  gone  to 
London  as  they  urged,  instead  of  abiding  where  I  was, 
agreeably  to  the  Vicar's  argument  and  my  own  in- 
clination, it  is  a  great  question  whether  the  plague 
would  not  have  proved  too  strong  for  Betty  Nasroth, 
and  her  prediction  gone  to  lie  with  me  in  a  death-pit. 
As  things  befell  I  lived,  hearing  only  dimly,  and,  as  it 
were,  from  afar  off,  of  that  great  calamity,  and  of  the 
horrors  that  beset  the  city.  For  the  disease  did  not 
come  our  way,  and  we  moralised  on  the  sins  of  the 
townsfolk  with  sound  bodies  and  contented  minds. 
We  were  happy  in  our  health  and  in  our  virtue,  and 
not  disinclined  to  applaud  God's  judgment  that  smote 
our  erring  brethren  ;  for  too  often  the  chastisement  of 
one  sinner  feeds  another's  pride.  Yet  the  plague  had 
a  hand,  and  no  small  one,  in  that  destiny  of  mine, 


The  Child  of  Prophecy.  7 

although  it  came  not  near  me ;  for  it  brought  fresh 
tenants  to  those  same  rooms  in  the  gardener's  cottage, 
where  the  Vicar  had  dwelt  till  the  loyal  Parliament's 
Act  proved  too  hard  for  the  conscience  of  our  Inde- 
pendent minister,  and  the  Vicar,  nothing  loth,  moved 
back  to  his  parsonage. 

Now  I  was  walking  one  day,  as  I  had  full  licence 
and  leave  to  walk,  in  the  avenue  of  Quinton  Manor 
when  I  saw,  first,  what  I  had  (if  I  am  to  tell  the  truth), 
come  to  see,  to  wit,  the  figure  of  young  Mistress  Bar- 
bara, daintily  arrayed  in  a  white  summer  gown.  Bar- 
bara was  pleased  to  hold  herself  haughtily  towards 
me,  for  she  was  an  heiress,  and  of  a  house  that  had 
not  fallen  in  the  world  as  mine  had.  Yet  we  were 
friends ;  for  we  sparred  and  rallied,  she  giving  offence 
and  I  taking  it,  she  pardoning  my  rudeness  and  I 
accepting  forgiveness :  while  my  lord  and  my  lady, 
perhaps  thinking  me  too  low  for  fear  and  yet  high 
enough  for  favour,  showed  me  much  kindness;  my 
lord  indeed  would  often  jest  with  me  on  the  great  fate 
foretold  me  in  Betty  Nasroth's  prophecy. 

"  Yet,"  he  would  say,  with  a  twinkle  in  his  eye, 
"  the  King  has  strange  secrets,  and  there  is  some 
strange  wine  in  his  cup,  and  to  love  what  he  loves — " 
but  at  this  point  the  Vicar,  who  chanced  to  be  by, 
twinkled  also,  but  shifted  the  conversation  to  some 
theme  which  did  not  touch  the  King,  his  secrets,  his 
wine,  or  what  he  loved. 

Thus  then  I  saw,  as  I  say,  the  slim  tall  figure,  the 
dark  hair  and  the  proud  eyes  of  Barbara  Quinton  ;  and 
the  eyes  were  flashing  in  anger  as  their  owner  turned 
away  from — what  I  had  not  looked  to  see  in  Barbara's 
company.  This  was  another  damsel,  of  lower  stature 
and  plumper  figure,  dressed  full  as  prettily  as  Barbara 
herself,  and  laughing  with  most  merry  lips  and  under 
eyes  that  half  hid  themselves  in  an  eclipse  of  mirth. 
When  Barbara  saw  me  she  did  not,  as  her  custom  was, 


8  Simon  Dale, 

feign  not  to  see  me  till  I  thrust  my  presence  on  her, 
but  ran  to  me  at  once,  crying  very  indignantly, 
"  Simon,  who  is  this  girl  ?  She  has  dared  to  tell  me 
that  my  gown  is  of  country  make  and  hangs  like  an 
old  smock  on  a  beanpole." 

"Mistress  Barbara,"  I  answered,  "who  heeds  the 
make  of  the  gown  when  the  wearer  is  of  divine  make  ?  " 
I  was  young  then  and  did  not  know  that  to  compli- 
ment herself  at  the  expense  of  her  apparel  is  not  the 
best  way  to  please  a  woman. 

"You  are  silly,"  said  Barbara.     "Who  is  she?  " 

"  The  girl,"  said  I,  crestfallen,  "  is,  they  tell  me, 
from  London,  and  she  lodges  with  her  mother  in  your 
gardener's  cottage.  But  I  didn't  look  to  find  her  here 
in  the  avenue." 

"  You  shall  not  again  if  I  have  my  way,"  said  Bar- 
bara. Then  she  added,  abruptly  and  sharply,  "  Why 
do  you  look  at  her?  " 

Now  it  was  true  that  I  was  looking  at  the  stranger ; 
and  on  Barbara's  question  I  looked  the  harder. 

"  She  is  mighty  pretty,"  said  I.  "  Does  she  not 
seem  so  to  you,  Mistress  Barbara?"  And,  simple 
though  I  was,  I  spoke  not  altogether  in  simplicity. 

"  Pretty  ?  "  echoed  Barbara.  "  And  pray  what  do 
you  know  of  prettiness,  Master  Simon  ?  " 

"  What  I  have  learnt  at  Quinton  Manor,"  I  an- 
swered with  a  bow. 

"  That  doesn't  prove  her  pretty,"  retorted  the  angry 
lady. 

"  There's  more  than  one  way  of  it,"  said  I  discreetly, 
and  I  took  a  step  towards  the  visitor,  who  stood  some 
ten  yards  from  us,  laughing  still  and  plucking  a  flower 
to  pieces  in  her  fingers. 

"  She  isn't  known  to  you  ?  "  asked  Barbara,  per- 
ceiving my  movement. 

"  I  can  remedy  that,"  said  I,  smiling. 

Never  since  the  world  began  had  youth  been  a  more 


The  Child  of  Prophecy.  9 

faithful  servant  to  maid  than  I  to  Barbara  Quinton. 
Yet  because,  if  a  man  lie  down,  the  best  of  girls  will 
set  her  pretty  foot  on  his  neck,  and  also  from  my  love 
of  a  thing  that  is  new,  I  was  thoroughly  resolved  to 
accost  the  gardener's  guest  ;  and  my  purpose  was  not 
altered  by  Barbara's  scornful  toss  of  her  little  head  as 
she  turned  away. 

"  It  is  no  more  than  civility,"  I  protested,  "  to  ask 
after  her  health,  for,  coming  from  London,  she  can  but 
just  have  escaped  the  plague." 

Barbara  tossed  her  head  again,  declaring  plainly  her 
opinion  of  my  excuse. 

"  But  if  you  desire  me  to  walk  with  you — "  I  be- 
gan. 

"  There  is  nothing  I  thought  of  less,"  she  inter- 
rupted. "  I  came  here  to  be  alone." 

"  My  pleasure  lies  in  obeying  you,"  said  I,  and  I 
stood  bareheaded  while  Barbara,  without  another 
glance  at  me,  walked  off  towards  the  house.  Half 
penitent,  yet  wholly  obstinate,  I  watched  her  go ;  she 
did  not  once  look  over  her  shoulder.  Had  she — but 
a  truce  to  that.  What  passed  is  enough  ;  with  what 
might  have,  my  story  would  stretch  to  the  world's 
end.  I  smothered  my  remorse,  and  went  up  to  the 
stranger,  bidding  her  good-day  in  my  most  polite  and 
courtly  manner;  she  smiled,  but  at  what  I  knew  not. 
She  seemed  little  more  than  a  child,  sixteen  years  old 
or  seventeen  at  the  most,  yet  there  was  no  confusion 
in  her  greeting  of  me.  Indeed  she  was  most  marvel- 
lously at  her  ease,  for,  on  my  salute,  she  cried,  lifting 
her  hands  in  feigned  amazement, — 

"  A  man,  by  my  faith,  a  man  in  this  place ! " 

Well  pleased  to  be  called  a  man,  I  bowed  again. 

"  Or  at  least,"  she  added,  "  what  will  be  one,  if  it 
please  Heaven." 

"  You  may  live  to  see  it  without  growing  wrinkled," 
said  I,  striving  to  conceal  my  annoyance." 


io  Simon  Dale. 

"  And  one  that  has  repartee  in  him !  Oh,  marvel- 
lous !  " 

"  We  do  not  all  lack  wit  in  the  country,  madame," 
said  I,  simpering  as  I  supposed  the  Court  gallants  to 
simper,  "  nor,  since  the  plague  came  to  London, 
beauty." 

"  Indeed  it's  wonderful,"  she  cried,  in  mock  admira- 
tion. .  "  Do  they  teach  such  sayings  hereabouts,  sir?  " 

"  Even  so,  madame,  and  from  such  books  as  your 
eyes  furnish."  And  for  all  her  air  of  mockery,  I  was, 
as  I  remember,  much  pleased  with  this  speech.  It 
had  come  from  some  well-thumbed  romance,  I  doubt 
not.  I  was  always  an  eager  reader  of  such  silly 
things. 

She  curtseyed  low,  laughing  up  at  me  with  roguish 
eyes  and  mouth. 

"  Now,  surely,  sir,"  she  said,  "  you  must  be  Simon 
Dale,  of  whom  my  host  the  gardener  speaks  ?  " 

"  It  is  my  name,  madame,  at  your  service.  But  the 
gardener  has  played  me  a  trick  ;  for  now  I  have  noth- 
ing to  give  in  exchange  for  your  name." 

"  Nay,  you  have  a  very  pretty  nosegay  in  your 
hand,"  said  she.  "  I  might  be  persuaded  to  barter 
my  name  for  it." 

The  nosegay  that  was  in  my  hand  I  had  gathered 
and  brought  for  Barbara  Quinton,  and  I  still  meant  to 
use  it  as  a  peace-offering.  But  Barbara  had  treated 
me  harshly,  and  the  stranger  looked  longingly  at  the 
nosegay. 

"The  gardener  is  a  niggard  with  his  flowers,"  she 
said,  with  a  coaxing  smile. 

"To  confess  the  truth,"  said  I,  wavering  in  my 
purpose,  "  the  nosegay  was  plucked  for  another." 

"  It  will  smell  the  sweeter,"  she  cried,  with  a  laugh. 
"Nothing  gives  flowers  such  a  perfume."  And  she 
held  out  a  wonderfully  small  hand  towards  my  nose- 
gay- 


'CAl'liHT  BY  HKK  PRKTTY  WAYS  AND  GRACEFUL  BOLDSKSS."— PAGK  It. 


The  Child  of  Prophecy.  1 1 

"Is  that  a  London  lesson?"  I  asked,  holding  the 
flowers  away  from  her  grasp. 

"  It  holds  good  in  the  country  also,  sir ;  wherever, 
indeed,  there  is  a  man  to  gather  flowers  and  more 
than  one  lady  who  loves  smelling  them." 

"  Well,"  said  I,  "  the  nosegay  is  yours  at  the  price," 
and  I  held  it  out  to  her. 

"  The  price  ?     What,  you  desire  to  know  my  name  ?  " 

"  Unless,  indeed,  I  may  call  you  one  of  my  own 
choosing,"  said  I,  with  a  glance  that  should  have  been 
irresistible. 

"  Would  you  use  it  in  speaking  of  me  to  Mistress 
Barbara  there  ?  No,  I'll  give  you  a  name  to  call  me 
by.  You  may  call  me  Cydaria." 

"  Cydaria  !     A  fine  name  !  " 

"  It  is,"  said  she,  carelessly,  "  as  good  as  any  other." 

"  But  is  there  no  other  to  follow  it  ?  " 

"  When  did  a  poet  ask  two  names  to  head  his  son- 
net ?  And  surely  you  wanted  mine  for  a  sonnet  ?  " 

"  So  be  it,  Cydaria,"  said  I. 

"  So  be  it,  Simon.  And  is  not  Cydaria  as  pretty  as 
Barbara?  " 

"  It  has  a  strange  sound,"  said  I,  "  but  is  well 
enough." 

"  And  now — the  nosegay  !  " 

"  I  must  pay  a  reckoning  for  this,"  I  sighed  ;  but 
since  a  bargain  is  a  bargain  I  gave  her  the  nosegay. 

She  took  it,  her  face  all  alight  with  smiles,  and 
buried  her  nose  in  it.  I  stood  looking  at  her,  caught 
by  her  pretty  ways  and  graceful  boldness.  Boy 
though  I  was,  I  had  been  right  in  telling  her  that  there 
are  many  ways  of  beauty  ;  here  were  two  to  start  with, 
hers  and  Barbara's.  She  looked  up,  and,  finding  my 
gaze  on  her,  made  a  little  grimace  as  though  it  were 
only  what  she  had  expected  and  gave  her  no  more 
concern  than  pleasure.  Yet  at  such  a  look  Barbara 
would  have  turned  cold  and  distant  for  an  hour 


iz  Simon  Dale. 

or  more.  Cydaria,  smiling  in  scornful  indulgence, 
dropped  me  another  mocking  curtsey,  and  made  as 
though  she  would  go  her  way.  Yet  she  did  not  go,  but 
stood  with  her  head  half-averted,  a  glance  straying 
towards  me  from  the  corner  of  her  eye,  while  with  her 
tiny  foot  she  dug  the  gravel  of  the  avenue. 

"  It  is  a  lovely  place,  this  park,"  said  she.  "  But, 
indeed,  it's  often  hard  to  find  the  way  about  it." 

I  was  not  backward  to  take  her  hint. 

"  If  you  had  a  guide  now — "  I  began. 

"  Why,  yes,  if  I  had  a  guide,  Simon,"  she  whispered, 
gleefully. 

"  You  could  find  the  way,  Cydaria,  and  your  guide 
would  be  most " 

"  Most  charitably  engaged.  But  then "  She 

paused,  drooping  the  corners  of  her  mouth  in  sudden 
despondency. 

"But  what  then  ?  " 

"  Why  then,  Mistress  Barbara  would  be  alone." 

I  hesitated.  I  glanced  towards  the  house.  I  looked 
at  Cydaria 

"  She  told  me  that  she  wished  to  be  alone,"  said  I. 

"  No  ?     How  did  she  say  it  ?  " 

"  I  will  tell  you  all  about  that  as  we  go  along,"  said 
I,  and  Cydaria  laughed  again. 


CHAPTER  IL 
The  Way  of  Youth. 

THE  debate  is  years  old  ;  not  indeed  quite  so  old  as 
the  world,  since  Adam  and  Eve  cannot,  for  want  of 
opportunity,  have  fallen  out  over  it,  yet  descending  to 
us  from  unknown  antiquity.  But  it  has  never  been 
set  at  rest  by  general  consent :  the  quarrel  over 
Passive  Obedience  is  nothing  to  it.  It  seems  such  a 
small  matter  though  ;  for  the  debate  I  mean  turns  on 
no  greater  question  than  this:  May  a  man  who  owns 
allegiance  to  one  lady  justify  by  any  train  of  reason- 
ing his  conduct  in  snatching  a  kiss  from  another,  this 
other  being  (for  it  is  important  to  have  the  terms 
right)  not  (so  far  as  can  be  judged)  unwilling?  I  main- 
tained that  he  might ;  to  be  sure,  my  position  ad- 
mitted of  no  other  argument,  and,  for  the  most  part, 
it  is  a  man's  state  which  determines  his  arguments 
and  not  his  reasons  that  induce  his  state.  Barbara 
declared  that  he  could  not ;  though,  to  be  sure,  it  was, 
as  she  added  most  promptly,  no  concern  of  hers  ;  for 
she  cared  not  whether  I  were  in  love  or  not,  nor  how 
deeply,  nor  with  whom,  nor  in  a  word  anything  at  all 
about  the  matter.  It  was  an  abstract  opinion  she 
gave,  so  far  as  love,  or  what  men  chose  to  call  such, 
might  be  involved;  as  to  seemliness  she  must  confess 
that  she  had  her  view  with  which,  may  be,  Mr.  Dale 
was  not  in  agreement.  The  girl  at  the  gardener's 
cottage  must,  she  did  not  doubt,  agree  wholly  with 
Mr.  Dale ;  how  otherwise  would  she  have  suffered  the 


14  Simon  Dale* 

kiss  in  an  open  space  in  the  park,  where  anybody 
might  pass — and  where  in  fact  (by  the  most  perverse 
chance  in  the  world)  pretty  Mistress  Barbara  herself 
passed  at  the  moment  when  the  thing  occurred  ?  How- 
ever, if  the  matter  could  ever  have  had  the  smallest 
interest  for  her — save  in  so  far  as  it  touched  the 
reputation  of  the  village  and  might  afford  an  evil 
example  to  the  village  maidens — it  could  have  none  at 
all  now,  seeing  that  she  set  out  the  next  day  to  Lon- 
don, to  take  her  place  as  Maid  of  Honour  to  her 
Royal  Highness  the  Duchess,  and  would  have  as  little 
leisure  as  inclination  to  think  of  Mr.  Simon  Dale  or 
of  how  he  chose  to  amuse  himself  when  he  believed 
that  none  was  watching.  Not  that  she  had  watched ; 
her  presence  was  the  purest  and  most  unwelcome 
chance.  Yet  she  could  not  but  be  glad  to  hear  that 
the  girl  was  soon  to  go  back  whence  she  came,  to  the 
great  relief  (she  was  sure)  of  Madame  Dale  and  of  her 
dear  friends  Lucy  and  Mary ;  to  her  love  for  whom 
nothing — no,  nothing — should  make  any  difference. 
For  the  girl  herself  she  wished  no  harm,  but  she  con- 
ceived that  her  mother  must  be  ill  at  ease  concerning 
her. 

It  will  be  allowed  that  Mistress  Barbara  had  the 
most  of  the  argument  if  not  the  best.  Indeed  I  found 
little  to  say,  except  that  the  village  would  be  the 
worse  by  so  much  as  the  Duchess  of  York  was  the 
better  for  Mistress  Barbara's  departure.  The  civility 
won  me  nothing  but  the  haughtiest  curtesy  and  a 
taunt, — 

"Must  you  rehearse  your  pretty  speeches  on  me 
before  you  venture  them  on  your  friends,  sir?"  she 
asked. 

"  I  am  at  your  mercy,  Mistress  Barbara,"  I  pleaded. 
"  Are  we  to  part  enemies?  " 

She  made  me  no  answer,  but  I  seemed  to  see  a 
softening  in  her  face  as  she  turned  away  towards  the 


The  Way  of  Youth.  15 

window,  whence  were  to  be  seen  the  stretch  of  the 
lawn  and  the  park-meadows  beyond.  I  believe  that 
with  a  little  more  coaxing  she  would  have  pardoned 
me,  but  at  the  instant,  by  another  stroke  of  perversity, 
a  small  figure  sauntered  across  the  sunny  fields.  The 
fairest  sights  may  sometimes  come  amiss. 

"Cydaria  !  A  fine  name  !  "  said  Barbara,  with  curl- 
ing lip.  "  I'll  wager  she  has  reasons  for  giving  no 
other." 

"  Her  mother  gives  another  to  the  gardener,"  I 
reminded  her,  meekly. 

"  Names  are  as  easy  given  as — as  kisses !  "  she 
retorted.  "As  for  Cydaria,  my  lord  says  it  is  a  name 
out  of  a  play." 

All  this  while  we  had  stood  at  the  window,  watch- 
ing Cydaria's  light  feet  trip  across  the  meadow,  and 
her  bonnet  swing  wantonly  in  her  hand.  But  now 
Cydaria  disappeared  among  the  trunks  of  the  beech- 
trees. 

"See,  she  is  gone,"  said  I,  in  a  whisper.  "  She  is 
gone,  Mistress  Barbara." 

Barbara  understood  what  I  would  say,  but  she  was 
resolved  to  show  me  no  gentleness.  The  soft  tones  of 
my  voice  had  been  for  her,  but  she  would  not  accept 
their  homage. 

"You  need  not  sigh  for  that  before  my  face,"  said 
she.  "  And  yet  sigh  if  you  will.  What  is  it  to  me  ? 
But  she  is  not  gone  far,  and,  doubtless,  will  not  run 
too  fast  when  you  pursue." 

"  When  you  are  in  London,"  said  I,  "  you  will  think 
with  remorse  how  ill  you  used  me." 

"  I  shall  never  think  of  you  at  all.  Do  you  forget 
that  there  are  gentlemen  of  wit  and  breeding  at  the 
Court  ?  " 

"  The  devil  flyaway  with  every  one  of  them  !  "  cried 
I  suddenly,  not  knowing  then  how  well  the  better 
part  of  them  would  match  their  escort. 


1 6  Simon  Dale. 

Barbara  turned  to  me  ;  there  was  a  gleam  of  triumph 
In  the  depths  of  her  dark  eyes. 

"  Perhaps  when  you  hear  of  meat  Court,"  she  cried, 
"you'll  be  sorry  to  think  how " 

But  she  broke  off  suddenly,  and  looked  out  of  the 
window. 

"  You'll  find  a  husband  there,"  I  suggested,  bitterly. 

"  Like  enough,"  said  she,  carelessly. 

To  be  plain,  I  was  in  no  happy  mood.  Her  going 
grieved  me  to  the  heart,  and  that  she  should  go  thus 
incensed  stung  me  yet  more.  I  was  jealous  of  every 
man  in  London  town  ;  had  not  my  argument,  then, 
some  reason  in  it  after  all  ? 

"  Fare-you-well,  madame,"  said  I,  with  a  heavy  frown 
and  a  sweeping  bow.  No  player  from  the  Lane  could 
have  been  more  tragic. 

"  Fare-you-well,  sir.  I  will  not  detain  you,  for  you 
have,  I  know,  other  farewells  to  make." 

"  Not  for  a  week  yet !  "  I  cried,  goaded  to  a  show  of 
exultation  that  Cydaria  stayed  so  long. 

"  I  don't  doubt  that  you'll  make  good  use  of  the 
time,"  she  said,  as  with  a  fine  dignity  she  waved  me 
to  the  door.  Girl  as  she  was,  she  had  caught  or  in- 
herited the  grand  air  that  great  ladies  use. 

Gloomily  I  passed  out,  to  fall  into  the  hands  of  my 
lord,  who  was  walking  on  the  terrace.  He  caught  me 
by  the  arm,  laughing  in  good-humoured  mockery. 

"You've  had  a  touch  of  sentiment,  eh,  you  rogue?" 
said  he.  "  Well,  there's  little  harm  in  that,  since  the 
girl  leaves  us  to-morrow." 

"  Indeed,  my  lord,  there  was  little  harm,"  said  I, 
long-faced  and  rueful.  "  As  little  as  my  lady  herself 
could  wish."  (At  this  he  smiled  and  nodded).  "  Mis- 
tress Barbara  will  hardly  so  much  as  look  at  me." 

He  grew  graver,  though  the  smile  still  hung  about 
his  lips. 

"  They  gossip  about   you  in    the   village,  Simon," 


The  Way  of  Youth.  17 

said  he.  "  Take  a  friend's  counsel  and  don't  be  so 
much  with  the  lady  at  the  cottage.  Come,  I  don't 
speak  without  reason."  He  nodded  at  me  as  a  man 
nods  who  means  more  than  he  will  say.  Indeed  not 
a  word  more  would  he  say,  so  that  when  I  left  him  I 
was  even  more  angry  than  when  I  parted  from  his 
daughter.  And,  the  nature  of  man  being  such  as 
Heaven  has  made  it,  what  need  to  say  that  I  bent  my 
steps  to  the  cottage  with  all  convenient  speed  ?  The 
only  weapon  of  an  ill-used  lover  (nay,  I  will  not  argue 
the  merits  of  the  case  again)  was  ready  to  my  hand. 

Yet  my  impatience  availed  little ;  for  there,  on  the 
seat  that  stood  by  the  door,  sat  my  good  friend  the 
Vicar,  discoursing  in  pleasant  leisure  with  the  lady 
who  named  herself  Cydaria. 

"  It  is  true,"  he  was  saying.  "  I  fear  it  is  true, 
though  you're  over  young  to  have  learnt  it." 

"  There  are  schools,  sir,"  she  returned,  with  a  smile 
that  had  (or  so  it  seemed  to  me)  a  touch — no  more — 
of  bitterness  in  it,  "  where  such  lessons  are  early 
learnt." 

"  They  are  best  let  alone,  those  schools,"  said  he. 

"  And  what's  the  lesson  ?  "  I  asked,  drawing  nearer. 

Neither  answered.  The  Vicar  rested  his  hands  on 
the  ball  of  his  cane,  and  suddenly  began  to  relate  old 
Betty  Nasroth's  prophecy  to  his  companion.  I  cannot 
tell  what  led  his  thoughts  to  it,  but  it  was  never  far 
from  his  mind  when  I  was  by.  She  listened  with 
attention,  smiling  brightly  in  whimsical  amusement 
when  the  fateful  words,  pronounced  with  due  solem- 
nity, left  the  Vicar's  lips. 

"  It  is  a  strange  saying,"  he  ended,  "of  which  time 
alone  can  show  the  truth." 

She  glanced  at  me  with  merry  eyes,  yet  with  a  new 
sort  of  interest.  It  is  strange  the  hold  these  supersti- 
tions have  on  all  of  us;  though  surely  future  ages 
will  outgrow  such  childishness. 


i8  Simon  Dale* 

"  I  don't  know  what  the  prophecy  means,"  said  she, 
"yet  one  thing  at  least  would  seem  needful  for  its 
fulfilment — that  Mr.  Dale  should  become  acquainted 
with  the  King." 

"True!"  cried  the  Vicar,  eagerly.  "Everything 
stands  on  that,  and  on  that  we  stick.  For  Simon  cannot 
love  where  the  King  loves,  nor  know  what  the  King 
hides,  nor  drink  of  the  King's  cup,  if  he  abide  all  his 
days  here  in  Hatchstead.  Come,  Simon,  the  plague 
is  gone  !  " 

"Should  I  then  be  gone  too?"  I  asked.  "Yet  to 
what  end  ?  I  have  no  friends  in  London  who  would 
bring  me  to  the  notice  of  the  King." 

The  Vicar  shook  his  head  sadly.  I  had  no  such 
friends,  and  the  King  had  proved  before  now  that  he 
could  forget  many  a  better  friend  to  the  throne  than 
my  dear  father's  open  mind  had  made  of  him. 

"We  must  wait,  we  must  wait  still,"  said  the  Vicar. 
"  Time  will  find  a  friend." 

Cydaria  had  become  pensive  for  a  moment,  but  she 
looked  up  now,  smiling  again,  and  said  to  me, — 

"  You'll  soon  have  a  friend  in  London." 

Thinking  of  Barbara,  I  answered  gloomily,  "  She's 
no  friend  of  mine." 

"  I  did  not  mean  whom  you  mean,"  said  Cydaria, 
with  twinkling  eyes  and  not  a  whit  put  out.  "  But  I 
also  am  going  to  London." 

I  smiled,  for  it  did  not  seem  as  though  she  would 
be  a  powerful  friend,  or  able  to  open  any  way  for  me. 
But  she  met  my  smile  with  another  so  full  of  con- 
fidence and  challenge  that  my  attention  was  wholly 
caught,  and  I  did  not  heed  the  Vicar's  farewell  as  he 
rose  and  left  us. 

"  And  would  you  serve  me,"  I  asked,  "  if  you  had 
the  power  ?  " 

"Nay,  put  the  question  as  you  think  it,"  said 
she.  "  Would  you  have  the  power  to  serve  me  if 


The  Way  of  Youth.  19 

you  had  the  will  ?  Is  not  that  the  doubt  in  your 
mind  ?  " 

"And  if  it  were?" 

"Then  indeed  I  do  not  know  how  to  answer;  but 
strange  things  happen  there  in  London,  and  it  may  be 
that  some  day  even  I  should  have  some  power." 

"And  you  would  use  it  for  me  ?  " 

"  Could  I  do  less  on  behalf  of  a  gentleman  who  has 
risked  his  mistress's  favour  for  my  poor  cheek's  sake  ?  " 
And  she  fell  to  laughing  again,  her  mirth  growing 
greater  as  I  turned  red  in  the  face.  "  You  mustn't 
blush  when  you  come  to  town,"  she  cried,  "or  they'll 
make  a  ballad  on  you,  and  cry  you  in  the  streets  for  a 
monster." 

"  The  oftener  comes  the  cause,  the  rarer  shall  the 
effect  be,"  said  I. 

"  The  excuse  is  well  put,"  she  conceded.  "  We 
should  make  a  wit  of  you  in  town." 

"  What  do  you  in  town  ?  "  I  asked  squarely,  looking 
her  full  in  the  eyes. 

"  Perhaps,  sometimes,"  she  laughed,  "  what  I  have 
done  once — and  to  your  good  knowledge — since  I 
came  to  the  country." 

Thus  she  would  baffle  me  with  jesting  answers  as 
often  as  I  sought  to  find  out  who  and  what  she  was. 
Nor  had  I  better  fortune  with  her  mother,  for  whom  I 
had  small  liking,  and  who  had,  as  it  seemed,  no  more 
for  me.  For  she  was  short  in  her  talk,  and  frowned 
to  see  me  with  her  daughter.  Yet  she  saw  me,  I 
must  confess,  often  with  Cydariain  the  next  days,  and 
I  was  often  with  Cydaria  when  she  did  not  see  me. 
For  Barbara  was  gone,  leaving  me  both  sore  and 
lonely,  all  in  the  mood  to  find  comfort  where  I  could 
and  to  see  manliness  in  desertion  ;  and  there  was  a 
charm  about  the  girl  that  grew  on  me  insensibly  and 
without  my  will  until  I  came  to  love,  not  her  (as  I 
believed,  forgetting  that  Love  loves  not  to  mark  his 


20  Simon  Dale* 

boundaries  too  strictly)  but  her  merry  temper,  her  wit 
and  cheerfulness.  Moreover  these  things  were  min- 
gled and  spiced  with  others,  more  attractive  than  all 
to  unfledged  youth,  an  air  of  the  world  and  a  knowl- 
edge of  life  which  piqued  my  curiosity,  and  sat  (it 
seems  so  even  to  my  later  mind  as  I  look  back)  with 
bewitching  incongruity  on  the  laughing  child's  face 
and  the  unripe  grace  of  girlhood.  Her  moods  were 
endless,  vying  with  one  another  in  an  ever  undeter- 
mined struggle  for  the  prize  of  greatest  charm.  For 
the  most  part  she  was  merry,  frank  mirth  passing  into 
sly  raillery ;  now  and  then  she  would  turn  sad,  sigh- 
ing, "  Heigho,  that  I  could  stay  in  the  sweet  innocent 
country ! "  Or  again  she  would  show  or  ape  an  un- 
easy conscience,  whispering,  "  Ah,  that  I  were  like 
your  Mistress  Barbara!"  The  next  moment  she 
would  be  laughing,  and  jesting,  and  mocking,  as 
though  life  were  naught  but  a  great  many-coloured 
bubble,  and  she  the  brightest-tinted  gleam  on  it. 

Are  women  so  constant  and  men  so  forgetful  that 
all  sympathy  must  go  from  me  and  all  esteem  be  for- 
feited because,  being  of  the  age  of  eighteen  years,  I 
vowed  to  live  for  one  lady  only  on  a  Monday  and 
was  ready  for  another  on  the  Saturday?  Look  back ; 
bow  your  heads,  and  give  me  your  hands,  to  kiss  or  to 
clasp ! 

Let  not  you  and  I  inquire 
What  has  been  our  past  desire, 
On  what  shepherds  you  have  smiled, 
Or  what  nymphs  I  have  beguiled  : 
Leave  it  to  the  planets  too 
What  we  shall  hereafter  do  ; 
For  the  joys  we  now  may  prove, 
Take  advice  of  present  love. 

Nay,  I  will  not  set  my  name  to  that  in  its  fullness; 
Mr.  Waller  is  a  little  too  free  for  one  who  has  been 


The  Way  of  Youth.  at 

nicknamed  a  Puritan  to  follow  him  to  the  end.  Yet 
there  is  a  truth  in  it.  Deny  it,  if  you  will.  You  are 
smiling,  madame,  while  you  deny. 

It  was  a  golden  summer's  evening  when  I,  to  whom 
the  golden  world  was  all  a  hell,  came  by  tryst  to  the 
park  of  Quinton  Manor,  there  to  bid  Cydaria  farewell. 
Mother  and  sisters  had  looked  askance  at  me,  the 
village  gossipped,  even  the  Vicar  shook  a  kindly  head. 
What  cared  I  ?  By  heaven,  why  was  one  man  a 
nobleman  and  rich,  while  another  had  no  money  in 
his  purse  and  but  one  change  to  his  back?  Was  not 
love  all  in  all? — and  why  did  Cydaria  laugh  at  a  truth 
so  manifest?  There  she  was  under  the  beechtree, 
with  her  sweet  face  screwed  up  to  a  burlesque  of 
grief,  her  little  hand  lying  on  her  hard  heart  as 
though  it  beat  for  me,  and  her  eyes  the  playground 
of  a  thousand  quick  expressions.  I  strode  up  to  her, 
and  caught  her  by  the  hand,  saying  no  more  than  just 
her  name,  "  Cydaria."  It  seemed  that  there  was  no 
more  to  say ;  yet  she  cried,  laughing  and  reproachful, 
"  Have  you  no  vows  for  me  ?  Must  I  go  without  my 
tribute?  " 

I  loosed  her  hand  and  stood  away  from  her.  On 
my  soul,  I  could  not  speak.  I  was  tongue-tied,  dumb 
as  a  dog. 

"  When  you  come  courting  in  London,"  she  said, 
"you  must  not  come  so  empty  of  lover's  baggage. 
There  ladies  ask  vows,  and  protestations,  and  despair, 
aye,  and  poetry,  and  rhapsodies,  and  I  know  not 
what." 

"  Of  all  these  I  have  nothing  but  despair,"  said  I. 

"Then  you  make  a  sad  lover,"  she  pouted.  "And 
I  am  glad  to  be  going  where  lovers  are  less  woebe- 
gone." 

"  You  look  for  lovers  in  London  ?  "  I  cried,  I  that 
had  cried  to  Barbara — well,  I  have  said  my  say  on 
that. 


22  Simon  Dale* 

"  If  Heaven  send  them,"  answered  Cydaria. 

"  And  you  will  forget  me  ?  " 

"  In  truth,  yes,  unless  you  come  yourself  to  remind 
me.  I  have  no  head  for  absent  lovers." 

"  But  if  I  come "  I  began,  in  a  sudden  flush  of 

hope. 

She  did  not  (though  it  was  her  custom)  answer  in 
raillery  ;  she  plucked  a  leaf  from  the  tree,  and  tore  it 
with  her  fingers  as  she  answered  with  a  curious  glance, 

"Why,  if  you  come,  I  think  you'll  wish  that  you 
had  not  come,  unless  indeed  you've  forgotten  me  be- 
fore you  come." 

"  Forget  you  !  Never  while  I  live  !  May  I  come, 
Cydaria?" 

"  Most  certainly,  sir,  so  soon  as  your  wardrobe  and 
your  purse  allow.  Nay,  don't  be  huffed.  Come, 
Simon,  sweet  Simon,  are  we  not  friends  and  may  not 
friends  rally  one  another?  No,  and  if  I  choose,  I 
will  put  my  hand  through  your  arm.  Indeed,  sir, 
you're  the  first  gentleman  that  ever  thrust  it  away. 
See,  it  is  there  now !  Doesn't  it  look  well  there, 
Simon — and  feel  well  there,  Simon?"  She  looked  up 
into  my  face  in  coaxing  apology  for  the  hurt  she  had 
given  me  and  yet  still  with  mockery  of  my  tragic  airs. 
"  Yes,  you  must  by  all  means  come  to  London,"  she 
went  on,  patting  my  arm.  "  Is  not  Mistress  Barbara 
in  London  ?  And  I  think — am  I  wrong,  Simon  ? — 
that  there  is  something  for  which  you  will  want  to 
ask  her  pardon." 

"  If  I  come  to  London,  it  is  for  you  and  you  only 
that  I  shall  come,"  I  cried. 

"  No,  no.  You  will  come  to  love  where  the  King 
loves,  to  know  what  he  hides,  and  to  drink  of  his  cup. 
I,  sir,  cannot  interfere  with  your  great  destiny.  She 
drew  away  from  me,  curtseyed  low,  and  stood  opposite 
to  me,  smiling. 

"  For  you  and  for  you  only,"  I  repeated. 


The  Way  of  Youth.  23 

"Then  will  the  King  love  me?  "  she  asked. 

"  God  forbid  !  "  said  I,  fervently. 

"  Oh,  and  why,  pray,  your  '  God  forbid  '  ?  You're 
very  ready  with  your  '  God  forbids.'  Am  I  then  to 
take  your  love  sooner  than  the  King's,  Master 
Simon  ?  " 

"  Mine  is  an  honest  love,"  said  I,  soberly. 

"  Oh,  I  should  doat  on  the  country,  if  everybody 
didn't  talk  of  his  honesty  there  !  I  have  seen  the 
King  in  London  and  he  is  a  fine  gentleman." 

"  And  you  have  seen  the  Queen  also,  may  be  ?  " 

"  In  truth,  yes.  Ah,  I  have  shocked  you,  Simon  ? 
Well,  I  was  wrong.  Come,  we're  in  the  country,  we'll 
be  good.  But  when  we've  made  a  townsman  of  you, 
we'll — we  will  be  what  they  are  in  town.  Moreover 
in  ten  minutes  I  am  going  home,  and  it  would  be  hard 
if  I  also  left  you  in  anger.  You  shall  have  a  plea- 
santer  memory  of  my  going  than  Mistress  Barbara's 
gave  you." 

"  How  shall  I  find  you  when  I  come  to  town  ?  " 

"  Why,  if  you  will  ask  any  gentleman  you  meet 
whether  he  chances  to  remember  Cydaria,  you  will 
find  me  as  soon  as  it  is  well  you  should." 

I  prayed  her  to  tell  me  more,  but  she  was  resolved 
to  tell  no  more. 

"  See,  it  is  late.  I  go,"  said  she.  Then  suddenly 
she  came  near  to  me.  "  Poor  Simon,"  she  said,  softly. 
"Yet  it  is  good  for  you,  Simon.  Some  day  you  wiil 
be  amused  at  this,  Simon."  She  spoke  as  though  she 
were  fifty  years  older  than  I.  My  answer  lay  not  in 
words  or  arguments.  I  caught  her  in  my  arms  and 
kissed  her.  She  struggled,  yet  she  laughed.  It  shot 
through  my  mind  then  that  Barbara  would  neither 
have  struggled  nor  laughed.  But  Cydaria  laughed. 

Presently  I  let  her  go,  and  kneeling  on  my  knee 
kissed  her  hand  very  humbly,  as  though  she  had  been 
what  Barbara  was.  If  she  were  not — and  I  knew  not 


»4  Simon  Dale* 

what  she  was — yet  should  my  love  exalt  her  and  make 
a  throne  whereon  she  might  sit  a  queen.  My  new 
posture  brought  a  sudden  gravity  to  her  face,  and  she 
bent  over  me  with  a  smile  that  seemed  now  tender 
and  almost  sorrowful. 

"  Poor  Simon,  poor  Simon,"  she  whispered.  "  Kiss 
my  hand  now,  kiss  it  as  though  I  were  fit  for  worship. 
It  will  do  you  no  harm  and — and,  perhaps — perhaps  I 
shall  like  to  remember  it."  She  bent  down  and  kissed 
my  forehead  as  I  knelt  before  her.  "  Poor  Simon," 
she  whispered,  as  her  hair  brushed  mine.  Then  her 
hand  was  gradually  and  gently  withdrawn.  I  looked 
up  to  see  her  face;  her  lips  were  smiling  but  there 
seemed  a  dew  on  her  lashes.  She  laughed,  and  the 
laugh  ended  in  a  little  gasp,  as  though  a  sob  had 
fought  with  it.  And  she  cried  out  loud,  her  voice 
ringing  clear  among  the  trees  in  the  still  evening  air — 

"  That  ever  I  should  be  so  sore  a  fool ! " 

Then  she  turned  and  left  me,  running  swiftly  over 
the  grass,  with  never  a  look  behind  her.  I  watched 
till  she  was  out  of  sight  and  then  sat  down  on  the 
ground,  with  twitching  lips  and  wide-open,  dreary 
eyes. 

Ah,  for  youth's  happiness  !  Alas  for  its  dismal 
woe  !  Thus  she  came  into  my  life. 


CHAPTER  HI. 
The  Music  of  the  World. 

IF  a  philosopher,  learned  in  the  human  mind  as 
Flamsteed  in  the  courses  of  the  stars  or  the  great  New- 
ton in  the  laws  of  external  nature,  were  to  take  one 
possessed  by  a  strong  passion  of  love  or  a  bitter  grief 
or  what  overpowering  emotion  you  will,  and  were  to 
consider  impartially  and  with  cold  precision  what 
share  of  his  time  was  in  reality  occupied  by  the  thing 
which,  as  we  are  in  the  habit  of  saying,  filled  his 
thoughts  or  swayed  his  life  or  mastered  his  intellect, 
the  world  might  well  smile  (and  to  my  thinking  had 
better  smile  than  weep)  at  the  issue  of  the  investiga- 
tion. When  the  first  brief  shock  was  gone,  how  few 
out  of  the  solid  twenty-four  would  be  the  hours 
claimed  by  the  despot,  however  much  the  poets  might 
call  him  insatiable.  There  is  sleeping,  and  meat  and 
drink,  the  putting  on  and  off  of  raiment  and  the  buy- 
ing of  it.  If  a  man  be  of  sound  body,  there  is  his 
sport ;  if  he  be  sane  there  are  the  interests  of  this  life 
and  provision  for  the  next.  And  if  he  be  young,  there 
is  nature's  own  joy  in  living  which  with  a  patient 
scornful  smile  sets  aside  his  protest  that  he  is  vowed  to 
misery  and  makes  him,  willynilly,  laugh  and  sing.  So 
that,  if  he  do  not  drown  himself  in  a  week  and  thereby 
baulk  the  enquiry,  it  is  odds  that  he  will  compose  him- 
self in  a  month  and  by  the  end  of  a  year  will  carry  no 
more  marks  of  his  misfortune  than  (if  he  be  a  man  of 
good  heart)  an  added  sobriety  and  tenderness  of  spirit. 


26  Simon  Dale* 

Yet  all  this  does  not  hinder  the  thing  from  returning, 
on  occasion  given. 

In  my  own  case — and  if  my  story  be  followed  to  its 
close  I  am  persuaded  that  I  shall  not  be  held  to  be  one 
who  took  the  disease  of  love  more  lightly  than  my  fel- 
lows— this  process  of  convalescence,  most  salutary,  yet 
in  a  sense  humiliating,  was  aided  by  a  train  of  circum- 
stances, in  which  my  mother  saw  the  favour  of  heaven 
to  our  family  and  the  Vicar  the  working  of  Betty  Nas- 
roth's  prophecy.  An  uncle  of  my  mother's  had  some 
forty  years  ago  established  a  manufactory  of  wool  at 
Norwich,  and  having  kept  always  before  his  eyes  the 
truth  that  men  must  be  clothed  howsoever  they  may 
think  on  matters  of  Church  and  State,  and  that  it  is  a 
clothweaver's  business  to  clothe  them  and  not  to  think 
for  them,  had  lived  a  quiet  life  through  all  the  distur- 
bances and  had  prospered  greatly  in  his  trade.  For 
marriage,  either  time  or  inclination  had  failed  him, 
and,  being  now  an  old  man,  he  felt  a  favourable  dis- 
position towards  me,  and  declared  the  intention  of 
making  me  heir  to  a  considerable  portion  of  his  for- 
tune provided  that  I  showed  myself  worthy  of  such 
kindness.  The  proof  he  asked  was  not  beyond  reason, 
though  I  found  cause  for  great  lamentation  in  it;  for 
it  was  that,  in  lieu  of  seeking  to  get  to  London,  I 
should  go  to  Norwich  and  live  there  with  him,  to  so- 
lace his  last  years,  and,  although  not  engaged  in  his 
trade,  learn  by  observation  something  of  the  serious 
occupations  of  life  and  of  the  condition  of  my  fellow- 
men,  of  which  things  young  gentlemen,  said  he,  were 
for  the  most  part  sadly  ignorant.  Indeed  they  were, 
and  they  thought  no  better  of  a  companion  for  being 
wiser;  to  do  anything  or  know  anything  that  might 
redound  to  the  benefit  of  man  or  the  honour  of  God 
was  not  the  mode  in  those  days.  Nor  do  I  say  that 
the  fashion  has  changed  greatly ;  no,  nor  that  it  will 
change.  Therefore  to  Norwich  I  went,  although  re- 


The  Music  of  the  World.  27 

luctantly,  and  there  I  stayed  full  three  years,  applying 
myself  to  the  comforting  of  my  uncle's  old  age,  and 
consoling  my  leisure  with  the  diversions  which  that 
great  and  important  city  afforded,  and  which  indeed 
were  enough  for  any  rational  mind.  But  reason  and 
youth  are  bad  bedfellows  and  all  the  while  I  was  like 
the  Israelites  in  the  wilderness ;  my  thoughts  were  set 
upon  the  Promised  Land  and  I  endured  my  probation 
hardly.  To  this  mood  I  set  down  the  fact  that  little 
of  my  life  at  Norwich  lives  in  my  memory  and  to  that 
little  I  seldom  recur  in  thought ;  the  time  before  it 
and  the  time  after  engross  my  backward  glances.  The 
end  came  with  my  uncle's  death,  whereat  I,  the  recipi- 
ent of  great  kindness  from  him,  sincerely  grieved,  and 
that  with  some  remorse  since  I  had  caused  him  sorrow 
by  refusing  to  take  up  his  occupation  as  my  own,  pre- 
ferring my  liberty  and  a  moderate  endowment  to  all 
his  fortune  saddled  with  the  condition  of  passing  my 
days  as  a  clothweaver.  Had  I  chosen  otherwise,  I 
should  have  lived  a  more  peaceful  and  died  a  richer 
man.  Yet  I  do  not  repent ;  not  riches  nor  peace,  but 
the  stir  of  the  blood,  the  work  of  the  hand,  and  the 
service  of  the  brain  make  a  life  that  a  man  can  look 
back  on  without  shame  and  with  delight. 

I  was  Hearing  my  twenty-second  birthday  when  I  re- 
turned to  Hatchstead  with  an  air  and  manner,  I  doubt 
not,  sadly  provincial,  but  with  a  lining  to  my  pocket 
for  whose  sake  many  a  gallant  would  have  surrendered 
some  of  his  plumes  and  feathers.  Three  thousand 
pounds,  invested  in  my  uncle's  business  and  returning 
good  and  punctual  profit,  made  of  Simon  Dale  a  per- 
son of  far  greater  importance  in  the  eyes  of  his  family 
than  he  had  been  three  years  ago.  It  was  a  com- 
petence on  which  a  gentleman  could  live  with  discre- 
tion and  modesty,  it  was  a  step  from  which  his  foot 
could  rise  higher  on  life's  ladder.  London  was  in  my 
power,  all  it  held  of  promise  and  possibility  was  not 


aS  Simon  Dale. 

beyond  the  flight  of  my  soaring  mind.  My  sisters  ex- 
changed sharp  admonitions  for  admiring  deference  and 
my  mother  feared  nothing  save  that  the  great  place  to 
which  I  was  now  surely  destined  might  impair  the 
homely  virtues  which  she  had  instilled  into  me.  As 
for  the  Vicar,  he  stroked  his  nose  and  glanced  at  me 
with  an  eye  which  spoke  so  plainly  of  Betty  Nasroth 
that  I  fell  to  laughing  heartily. 

Thus  being  in  great  danger  of  self-exaltation,  I  took 
the  best  medicine  that  I  could — although  by  no  means 
with  intention — in  waiting  on  my  Lord  Quinton,  who 
was  then  residing  at  the  Manor.  Here  my  swelled 
spirit  was  smartly  pricked  and  sank  soon  to  its  true 
proportions.  I  was  no  great  man  here,  and  although 
my  lord  received  me  very  kindly,  he  had  less  to  say 
on  the  richness  of  my  fortune  than  on  the  faults  of 
my  manner  and  the  rustic  air  of  my  attire.  Yet  he 
bade  me  go  to  London,  since  there  a  man,  rubbing 
shoulders  with  all  the  world,  learnt  to  appraise  his 
own  value  and  lost  the  ignorant  conceit  of  himself 
that  a  village  greatness  is  apt  to  breed.  Somewhat 
crestfallen  I  thanked  him  for  his  kindness,  and  made 
bold  to  ask  after  Mistress  Barbara. 

"  She  is  well  enough,"  he  answered,  smiling.  "  And 
she  is  become  a  great  lady.  The  wits  make  epigrams 
on  her,  and  the  fools  address  verses  to  her.  But  she's 
a  good  girl,  Simon." 

"  I'm  sure  of  it,  my  lord,"  I  cried. 

"  He's  a  bold  man  who  would  be  sure  of  it  concern- 
ing any  one  now-a-days,"  he  said,  dryly.  "  Yet  so, 
thank  God,  it  is.  See,  here's  a  copy  of  verses  she  had 
lately,"  and  he  flung  me  the  paper.  I  glanced  over  it 
and  saw  much  about  "dazzling  ice,"  "  unmelting 
snow,"  "  Venus,"  "  Diana,"  and  so  forth. 

"  It  seems  sad  stuff,  my  lord,"  said  I. 

"  Why,  yes,"  he  laughed,  "  but  it  is  by  a  gentleman 
of  repute.  Take  care  you  write  none  worse,  Simon." 


The  Music  of  the  World.  «9 

"Shall  I  have  the  honour  of  waiting  on  Mistress 
Barbara,  my  lord  ?  "  I  asked. 

"As  to  that,  Simon,  we  will  see  when  you  come. 
Yes,  we  must  see  what  company  you  keep.  For  ex- 
ample, on  whom  else  do  you  think  of  waiting  when 
you  are  set  up  in  London  ?  " 

He  looked  steadily  at  me,  a  slight  frown  on  his  brow, 
yet  a  smile,  and  not  an  unkind  one,  on  his  lips.  I 
grew  hot,  and  knew  that  I  grew  red  also. 

"  I  am  acquainted  with  few  in  London,  my  lord,"  I 
stammered,  "  and  with  those  not  well." 

"  Those  not  well  indeed,"  he  echoed,  the  pucker 
deepening  and  the  smile  vanishing.  Yet  the  smile 
came  again  as  he  rose  and  clapped  me  on  the  shoul- 
der. 

"You're  an  honest  lad,  Simon,"  he  said,  "even 
though  it  may  have  pleased  God  to  make  you  a  silly 
one.  And,  by  heaven,  who  would  have  all  lads  wise? 
Go  to  London,  learn  to  know  more  folk,  learn  to 
know  better  those  whom  you  know.  Bear  yourself  as 
a  gentleman,  and  remember,  Simon,  whatsoever  else 
the  King  may  be,  yet  he  is  the  King." 

Saying  this  with  much  emphasis  he  led  me  gently 
to  the  door. 

"  Why  did  he  say  that  about  the  King  ?  "  I  pon- 
dered as  I  walked  homeward  through  the  park;  for 
although  what  we  all,  even  in  the  country,  knew  of 
the  King,  gave  warrant  enough  for  the  words,  my 
lord  had  seemed  to  speak  them  to  me  with  some 
special  meaning,  and  as  though  they  concerned  me 
more  than  most  men.  Yet  what,  if  I  left  aside  Betty's 
foolish  talk,  as  my  lord  surely  did,  had  I  to  do  with 
the  King,  or  with  what  he  might  be  besides  the  King? 

About  this  time  much  stir  had  been  aroused  in  the 
country  by  the  dismissal  from  all  his  offices  of  that 
great  Minister  and  accomplished  writer,  the  Earl  of 
Clarendon,  and  by  the  further  measures  which  his 


3°  Simon  Dale* 

enemies  'threatened  against  him.  The  village  elders 
were  wont  to  assemble  on  the  days  when  the  post 
came  in  and  discuss  eagerly  the  news  brought  from 
London.  The  affairs  of  Government  troubled  my 
head  very  little,  but  in  sheer  idleness  I  used  often  to 
join  them,  wondering  to  see  them  so  perturbed  at  the 
happening  of  things  which  made  mighty  little  differ- 
ence in  our  retired  corner.  Thus  I  was  in  the  midst 
of  them  at  the  King  and  Crown  tavern,  on  the  Green, 
two  days  after  I  had  talked  with  my  Lord  Quinton.  I 
sat  with  a  mug  of  ale  before  me,  engrossed  in  my  own 
thoughts  and  paying  little  heed  to  what  passed,  when, 
to  my  amazement,  the  postman  leaping  from  his 
horse,  came  straight  across  to  me,  holding  out  in 
his  hand  a  large  packet  of  important  appearance. 
To  receive  a  letter  was  a  rare  event  in  my  life,  and  a 
rarer  followed,  setting  the  cap  on  my  surprise.  For 
the  man,  though  he  was  fully  ready  to  drink  my 
health,  demanded  no  money  for  the  letter,  saying  that 
it  came  on  the  service  of  his  Majesty  and  was  not 
chargeable.  He  spoke  low  enough,  and  there  was  a 
babble  about,  but  it  seemed  as  though  the  name  of 
the  King  made  its  way  through  all  the  hubbub  to  the 
Vicar's  ears  ;  for  he  rose  instantly,  and,  stepping  to  my 
side,  sat  down  by  me,  crying, — 

"What  said  he  of  the  King,  Simon?" 

"Why,  he  said,"  I  answered,  "that  this  great  letter 
comes  to  me  on  the  King's  service,  and  that  I  have 
nothing  to  pay  for  it,"  and  I  turned  it  over  and  over 
in  my  hands.  But  the  inscription  was  plain  enough, 
"To  Master  Simon  Dale,  Esquire,  at  Hatchstead,  by 
Hatfield." 

By  this  time  half  the  company  was  round  us,  and 
my  Lord  Clarendon  well-nigh  forgotten.  Small 
things  near  are  greater  than  great  things  afar,  and  at 
Hatchstead  my  affairs  were  of  more  moment  than  the 
fall  of  a  Chancellor  or  the  King's  choice  of  new  Min- 


The  Music  of  the  World.  31 

isters.  A  cry  arose  that  I  should  open  my  packet  and 
disclose  what  it  contained. 

"  Nay,"  said  the  Vicar,  with  an  air  of  importance, 
"  it  may  be  on  a  private  matter  that  the  King  writes." 

They  would  have  believed  that  of  my  lord  at  the 
Manor,  they  could  not  of  Simon  Dale.  The  Vicar 
met  their  laughter  bravely. 

"  But  the  King  and  Simon  are  to  have  private  mat- 
ters between  them  one  day,"  he  cried,  shaking  his  fist 
at  the  mockers,  himself  half  in  mockery. 

Meanwhile  I  opened  my  packet  and  read.  To  this 
day  the  amazement  its  contents  bred  in  me  is  fresh. 
For  the  purport  was  that  the  King,  remembering  my 
father's  services  to  the  King's  father  (and  forgetting, 
as  it  seemed,  those  done  to  General  Cromwell)  and  be- 
ing informed  of  my  own  loyal  disposition,  courage,  and 
good  parts,  had  been  graciously  pleased  to  name  me 
to  a  commission  in  his  Majesty's  Regiment  of  Life 
Guards,  such  commission  being  post-dated  six  months 
from  the  day  of  writing,  in  order  that  Mr.  Dale  should 
have  the  leisure  to  inform  himself  in  his  duties  and 
fit  himself  for  his  post ;  to  which  end  it  was  the 
King's  further  pleasure  that  Mr.  Dale  should  present 
himself,  bringing  this  same  letter  with  him,  without 
delay  at  Whitehall  and  there  be  instructed  in  his  drill 
and  in  all  other  matters  necessary  for  him  to  know. 
Thus  the  letter  ended,  with  a  commendation  of  me  to 
the  care  of  the  Almighty. 

I  sat  gasping  ;  the  gossips  gaped  round  me  ;  the 
Vicar  seemed  stunned.  At  last  somebody  grumbled, 

"  I  do  not  love  these  Guards.  What  need  of  guard 
has  the  King  except  in  the  love  of  his  subjects?  " 

"  So  his  father  found,  did  he  ?  "  cried  the  Vicar,  all 
aflame  in  a  moment. 

"  The  Life  Guards  !  "  I  murmured.  "  It  is  the  first 
regiment  of  all  in  honour." 

"Aye,  my  lad,"   said  the  Vicar.     "It  would  have 


3*  Simon  Dale* 

been  well  enough  for  you  to  serve  in  the  ranks  of  it, 
but  to  hold  his  Majesty's  Commission  ! "  Words 
failed  him  and  he  flew  to  the  landlord's  snuff-box, 
which  that  good  man,  moved  by  subtle  sympathy,  held 
out,  pat  to  the  occasion. 

Suddenly  those  words  of  my  lord's  that  had  at  the 
time  of  their  utterance  caught  my  attention  so  strongly 
flashed  into  my  mind,  seeming  now  to  find  their  ex- 
planation. If  there  were  fault  to  be  found  in  the 
King,  it  did  not  lie  with  his  own  servants  and  officers 
to  find  it  ;  I  was  now  of  his  Household  ;  my  lord  must 
have  known  what  was  on  the  way  to  me  from  London 
when  he  addressed  me  so  pointedly  ;  and  he  could 
know  only  because  he  had  himself  been  the  mover  in 
the  matter.  I  sprang  up  and  ran  across  to  the  Vicar, 
crying,— 

"  Why,  it  is  my  lord's  kindness !  He  has  spoken 
for  me." 

"  Aye,  aye,  it  is  my  lord  "  was  grunted  and  nodded 
round  the  circle  in  the  satisfaction  of  a  discovery 
obvious  so  soon  as  made.  The  Vicar  alone  dissented  ; 
he  took  another  pinch  and  wragged  his  head  petulantly. 

"  I  don't  think  it's  my  lord,"  said  he. 

"  But  why  not,  sir,  and  who  else  ?  "  I  urged. 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I  do  not  think  it  is  my  lord," 
he  persisted. 

Then  I  laughed  at  him,  and  he  understood  well 
that  I  mocked  his  dislike  of  a  plain-sailing,  everyday 
account  of  anything  to  which  it  might  be  possible  by 
hook  or  by  crook  to  attach  a  tag  of  mystery.  He  had 
harked  back  to  the  prophecy,  and  would  not  have  my 
lord  come  between  him  and  his  hobby. 

"You  may  laugh,  Simon,"  said  he,  gravely.  "But 
it  will  be  found  to  be  as  I  say." 

I  paid  no  more  heed  to  him,  but  caught  up  my  hat 
from  the  bench,  crying  that  I  must  run  at  once  and 
offer  thanks  to  my  lord,  for  he  was  to  set  out  for 


The  Music  of  the  World.  33 

London  that  day  and  would  be  gone  if  I  did  not 
hasten. 

"At  least,"  conceded  the  Vicar,  "you  will  do  no 
harm  by  telling  him.  He  will  wonder  as  much  as 
we." 

Laughing  again,  I  ran  off  and  left  the  company 
crowding  to  a  man  round  the  stubborn  Vicar.  It  was 
well  indeed  that  I  did  not  linger,  for,  having  come  to 
the  Manor  at  my  best  speed,  I  found  my  lord's  coach 
already  at  the  door  and  himself  in  cloak  and  hat  about 
to  step  into  it.  But  he  waited  to  hear  my  breathless 
story,  and,  when  I  came  to  the  pith  of  it,  snatched  my 
letter  from  my  hand  and  read  it  eagerly.  At  first  I 
thought  he  was  playing  a  part  and  meant  only  to 
deny  his  kindness  or  delay  the  confession  of  it.  His 
manner  soon  undeceived  me  ;  he  was  in  truth  amazed, 
as  the  Vicar  had  predicted,  but  more  than  that,  he 
was,  if  I  read  his  face  aright,  sorely  displeased  also  ; 
for  a  heavy  frown  gathered  on  his  brow  and  he  walked 
with  me  in  utter  silence  the  better  half  of  the  length 
of  the  terrace. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it,"  he  said,  bitterly. 
"  I  and  my  family  have  done  the  King  and  his  too 
much  service  to  have  the  giving  away  of  favours. 
Kings  do  not  love  their  creditors ;  no,  nor  pay  them." 

"But,  my  lord,  I  can  think  of  no  other  friend  who 
would  have  such  power." 

"  Can't  you  ? "  he  asked,  stopping  and  laying  his 
hand  on  my  shoulder.  "  May  be,  Simon,  you  don't 
understand  how  power  is  come  by  in  these  days  nor 
what  are  the  titles  to  the  King's  confidence." 

His  words  and  manner  dashed  my  new  pride  and  I 
suppose  my  face  grew  glum,  for  he  went  on  more 
gently,— 

"  Nay,  lad,  since  it  comes,  take  it  without  question. 
Whatever  the  source  of  it,  your  own  conduct  may 
make  it  an  honour." 


34  Simon  Dale. 

But  I  could  not  be  content  with  that. 

"The  letter  says,"  I  remarked,  "that  the  King  is 
mindful  of  my  father's  services." 

"  I  had  thought  that  the  age  of  miracles  was  past," 
smiled  my  lord.  "  Perhaps  it  is  not,  Simon." 

"  Then  if  it  be  not  for  my  father's  sake  nor  for 
yours,  my  lord,  I  am  at  a  loss,"  and  I  stuffed  the 
letter  into  my  pocket  very  peevishly. 

"  I  must  be  on  my  way,"  said  my  lord,  turning 
towards  the  coach.  "  Let  me  hear  from  you  when  you 
come,  Simon,  and  I  suppose  you  will  come  soon  now. 
You  will  find  me  at  my  house  in  Southampton  Square, 
and  my  lady  will  be  glad  of  your  company." 

I  thanked  him  for  his  civility,  but  my  face  was  still 
clouded.  He  had  seemed  to  suspect  and  hint  at  some 
taint  in  the  fountain  of  honour  that  had  so  unex- 
pectedly flowed  forth. 

"  I  can't  tell  what  to  make  of  it,"  I  cried. 

He  stopped  again,  as  he  was  about  to  set  his  foot 
on  the  step  of  his  coach,  and  turned,  facing  me 
squarely. 

"There's  no  other  friend  at  all  in  London,  Simon?" 
he  asked.  Again  I  grew  red,  as  he  stood  watching 
me.  "  Is  there  not  one  oth^er  ?  " 

I  collected  myself  as  well  as  I  could  and  answered, — 

"  One  that  would  give  me  a  commission  in  the  Life 
Guards,  my  lord?"  And  I  laughed  in  scorn. 

My  lord  shrugged  his  shoulders  and  mounted  into 
the  coach.  I  closed  the  door  behind  him,  and  stood 
waiting  his  reply.  He  leant  forward  and  spoke  across 
me  to  the  lackey  behind,  saying,  "  Go  on,  go  on." 

"What  do  you  mean,  my  lord?"  I  cried.  He 
smiled  but  did  not  speak.  The  coach  began  to 
move ;  I  had  to  walk  to  keep  my  place,  soon  I  should 
have  to  run. 

"  My  lord,"  I  cried,  "how  could  she ?" 

My  lord  took  out  his  snuff-box,  and  opened  it. 


The  Music  of  the  "World.  35 

"  Nay,  I  cannot  tell  how,"  said  he,  as  he  carried  his 
thumb  to  his  nose. 

"  My  lord,"  I  cried,  running  now,  "  do  you  know 
who  Cydaria  is?  " 

My  lord  looked  at  me,  as  I  ran  panting.  Soon  I 
should  have  to  give  in,  for  the  horses  made  merry 
play  down  the  avenue.  He  seemed  to  wait  for  the 
last  moment  of  my  endurance  before  he  answered. 
Then  waving  his  hand  at  the  window  he  said,  "All 
London  knows."  And  with  that  he  shut  the  window 
and  I  fell  back  breathless,  amazed,  and  miserably 
chagrined.  For  he  had  told  me  nothing  of  all  that  I 
desired  to  know,  and  what  he  had  told  me  did  no 
more  than  inflame  my  curiosity  most  unbearably. 
Yet  if  it  were  true,  this  mysterious  lady,  known  to  all 
London,  had  remembered  Simon  Dale !  A  man  of 
seventy  would  have  been  moved  by  such  a  thing ; 
what  wonder  that  a  boy  of  twenty-two  should  run 
half  mad  with  it  ? 

Yet,  strange  to  say,  it  seemed  to  the  Vicar's  mind 
no  more  unlikely  and  infinitely  more  pleasant  that  the 
King's  favour  should  be  bound  up  with  the  lady  we 
had  called  Cydaria  than  that  it  should  be  the  plain 
fruit  of  my  lord's  friendly  offices.  Presently  his  talk 
infected  me  with  something  of  the  same  spirit,  and 
we  fell  to  speculating  on  the  identity  of  this  lady, 
supposing  in  our  innocence  that  she  must  be  of  very 
exalted  rank  and  noble  station  if  indeed  all  London 
knew  her  and  she  had  a  voice  in  the  appointment  of 
gentlemen  to  bear  his  Majesty's  Commission.  It  was 
but  a  step  further  to  discern  for  me  a  most  notable 
career,  wherein  the  prophecy  of  Betty  Nasroth  should 
find  fulfilment  and  prove  the  link  that  bound  together 
a  chain  of  strange  fortune  and  high  achievement. 
Thus  our  evening  wore  away  and  with  it  my  vexation. 
Now  I  was  all  eager  to  be  gone,  to  set  my  hand  to  my 
work,  to  try  Fate's  promises,  and  to  learn  that  piece 


36  Simon  Dale* 

of  knowledge  which  all  London  had — the  true  name  of 
her  whom  we  called  Cydaria. 

"  Still,"  said  the  Vicar,  falling  into  a  sudden  pen- 
siveness  as  I  rose  to  take  my  leave,  "  there  are  things 
above  fortune's  favour,  or  a  king's,  or  a  great  lady's. 
To  those  cling,  Simon,  for  your  name's  sake  and  for 
my  credit,  who  taught  you." 

"  True,  sir,"  said  I  in  perfunctory  acknowledgment, 
but  with  errant  thoughts.  "  I  trust,  sir,  that  I  shall 
always  bear  myself  as  becomes  a  gentleman." 

"And  a  Christian,"  he  added,  mildly. 

"Aye,  sir,  and  a  Christian,"  I  agreed  readily  enough. 

"  Go  your  way,"  he  said,  with  a  little  smile.  "  I 
preach  to  ears  that  are  full  now  of  other  and  louder 
sounds,  of  strains  more  attractive  and  more  alluring 
melodies.  Therefore  now  you  cannot  listen ;  nay,  I 
know  that,  if  you  could,  you  would.  Yet  it  may  be 
that  some  day — if  it  be  God's  will,  soon — the  strings 
that  I  feebly  strike  may  sound  loud  and  clear,  so  that 
you  must  hear,  however  sweetly  that  other  music 
charms  your  senses.  And  if  you  hear,  Simon,  heed  ; 
if  you  hear,  heed." 

Thus,  with  his  blessing,  I  left  him.  He  followed 
me  to  the  door,  with  a  smile  on  his  lips,  but  in  his 
eyes  anxiety.  I  went  on  my  way,  never  looking  back. 
For  my  ears  were  indeed  filled  with  that  strange  and 
enchanting  music. 


CHAPTER  IV. 
Cydaria  Revealed. 

THERE  mounted  on  the  coach  at  Hertford  (for  at 
last  I  am  fairly  on  my  way  and  may  boast  that  I  have 
made  short  work  of  my  farewells)  a  gentleman  appar- 
ently about  thirty  years  of  age,  tall,  well  proportioned, 
and  with  a  thin  face,  clean-cut  and  high-featured. 
He  was  attended  by  a  servant  whom  he  called  Robert, 
a  stout  ruddy  fellow,  who  was  very  jovial  with  every 
post-boy  and  ostler  on  the  road.  The  gentleman, 
being  placed  next  to  me  by  the  chance  of  our  billets, 
lost  no  time  in  opening  the  conversation,  a  step  which 
my  rustic  backwardness  would  long  have  delayed. 
He  invited  my  confidence  by  a  free  disposal  of  his 
own,  informing  me  that  he  was  attached  to  the  house- 
hold of  Lord  Arlington,  and  was  returning  to  London 
on  his  lordship's  summons.  For  since  his  patron  had 
been  called  to  the  place  of  Secretary  of  State,  he,  Mr. 
Christopher  Darrell  (such  was  his  name),  was  likely  to 
be  employed  by  him  in  matters  of  trust,  and  thus  fill 
a  position  which  I  must  perceive  to  be  of  some  im- 
portance. All  this  was  poured  forth  with  wonderful 
candour  and  geniality,  and  I,  in  response,  opened  to 
him  my  fortunes  and  prospects,  keeping  back  nothing 
save  the  mention  of  Cydaria.  Mr.  Darrell  was,  or  af- 
fected to  be,  astonished  to  learn  that  I  was  a  stranger 
to  London — my  air  smacked  of  the  Mall  and  of  no 
other  spot  in  the  world,  he  swore  most  politely — but 
made  haste  to  offer  me  his  services,  proposing  that, 


3  8  Simon  Dale. 

since  Lord  Arlington  did  not  look  for  him  that  night, 
and  hfc  had  abandoned  his  former  lodging,  we  should 
lodge  together  at  an  inn  he  named  in  Covent  Garden, 
when  he  could  introduce  me  to  some  pleasant  com- 
pany. I  accepted  his  offer  most  eagerly.  Then  he 
fell  to  talking  of  the  Court,  of  the  households  of  the 
King  and  the  Duke,  of  Madame  the  Duchess  of  Or- 
leans, who  was  soon  to  come  to  England,  they  said 
(on  what  business  he  did  not  know) ;  next  he  spoke, 
although  now  with  caution,  of  persons  no  less  well 
known  but  of  less  high  reputation,  referring  lightly  to 
Lady  Castlemaine  and  Eleanor  Gwyn  and  others, 
while  I  listened,  half  scandalised,  half  pleased.  But  I 
called  him  back  by  asking  whether  he  were  acquainted 
with  one  of  the  Duchess's  ladies  named  Mistress  Bar- 
bara Quinton. 

"  Surely,"  he  said.  "  There  is  no  fairer  lady  at 
Court,  and  very  few  so  honest." 

I  hurried  to  let  him  know  that  Mistress  Barbara 
and  I  were  old  friends.  He  laughed  as  he  answered, — 

"  If  you'd  be  more  you  must  lose  no  time.  It  is 
impossible  that  she  should  refuse  many  more  suitors, 
and  a  nobleman  of  great  estate  is  now  sighing  for  her 
so  loudly  as  to  be  audible  from  Whitehall  to  Temple 
Bar." 

I  heard  the  news  with  interest,  with  pride,  and  with 
a  touch  of  jealousy  ;  but  at  this  time  my  own  fortunes 
so  engrossed  me  that  soon  I  harked  back  to  them,  and, 
taking  my  courage  in  both  hands,  was  about  to  ask  my 
companion  if  he  had  chanced  ever  to  hear  of  Cydaria, 
when  he  gave  a  new  turn  to  the  talk  by  asking  care- 
lessly,— 

"  You  are  a  Churchman,  sir,  I  suppose  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,"  I  answered,  with  a  smile,  and  perhaps 
a  bit  of  a  stare.  "What  did  you  conceive  me  to  be, 
sir? — a  Ranter,  or  a  Papist  ?  " 

"  Pardon,  pardon,  if  you  find  offence  in  my  ques- 


Cydaria  Revealed.  39 

tion,"  he  answered,  laughing.  "  There  are  many  men 
who  are  one  or  the  other,  you  know." 

"  The  country  has  learnt  that  to  its  sorrow,"  said  I, 
sturdily. 

"  Aye,"  he  said,  in  a  dreamy  way,  "  and  may  be  will 
learn  it  again."  And  without  more  he  fell  to  describ- 
ing the  famous  regiment  to  which  I  was  to  belong, 
adding  at  the  end, — 

"  And  if  you  like  a  brawl,  the  'prentices  in  the  City 
will  always  find  one  for  a  gentleman  of  the  King's 
Guards.  Take  a  companion  or  two  with  you  when 
you  walk  east  of  Temple  Bar.  By  the  way,  sir,  if  the 
question  may  be  pardoned,  how  came  you  by  your 
commission  ?  For  we  know  that  merit,  standing  alone, 
stands  generally  naked  also." 

I  was  much  inclined  to  tell  him  all  the  story,  but  a 
shamefacedness  came  over  me.  I  did  not  know  then 
how  many  owed  all  their  advancement  to  a  woman's 
influence,  and  my  manly  pride  disdained  to  own  the 
obligation.  I  put  him  off  by  a  story  of  a  friend  who 
wished  to  remain  unnamed,  and,  after  the  feint  of 
some  indifferent  talk,  seized  the  chance  of  a  short 
silence  to  ask  him  my  great  question. 

"  Pray,  sir,  have  you  ever  heard  of  a  lady  who  goes 
sometimes  by  the  name  of  Cydaria?"  said  I.  I  fear 
my  cheek  flushed  a  little,  do  what  I  could  to  check 
such  an  exhibition  of  rawness. 

"Cydaria?  Where  have  I  heard  that  name?  No, 

I  know  nobody — and  yet "  He  paused  ;  then, 

clapping  his  hand  on  his  thigh,  cried,  "  By  my  faith, 
yes ;  I  was  sure  I  had  heard  it.  It  is  a  name  from 
a  play  ;  from — from  the  '  Indian  Emperor.'  I  think 
your  lady  must  have  been  masquerading." 

"  I  thought  as  much,"  I  nodded,  concealing  my 
disappointment. 

He  looked  at  me  a  moment  with  some  curiosity,  but 
did  not  press  me  further ;  and,  since  we  had  begun  to 


4°  Simon  Dale* 

draw  near  London,  I  soon  had  my  mind  too  full  to 
allow  me  to  think  even  of  Cydaria.  There  is  small 
profit  in  describing  what  every  man  can  remember 
for  himself — his  first  sight  of  the  greatest  city  in  the 
world,  with  its  endless  houses  and  swarming  people. 
It  made  me  still  and  silent  as  we  clattered  along,  and 
I  forgot  my  companion  until  I  chanced  to  look  towards 
him,  and  found  an  amused  glance  fixed  on  my  face. 
But  as  we  reached  the  City  he  began  to  point  out 
where  the  fire  had  been,  and  how  the  task  of  rebuild- 
ing progressed.  Again  wonder  and  anticipation  grew 
on  me. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  it's  a  fine  treasure-house  for  a 
man  who  can  get  the  key  to  it." 

Yet,  amazed  as  I  was,  I  would  not  have  it  supposed 
that  I  was  altogether  an  unlicked  cub.  My  stay  in 
Norwich,  if  it  had  not  made  me  a  Londoner,  had 
rubbed  off  some  of  the  plough-mud  from  me,  and  I 
believe  that  my  new  friend  was  not  speaking  wholly  in 
idle  compliment  when  he  assured  me  that  I  should 
hold  my  own  very  well.  The  first  lesson  I  learnt  was 
not  to  show  any  wonder  that  I  might  feel,  but  to  re- 
ceive all  that  chanced  as  though  it  were  the  most  or- 
dinary thing  in  the  world  ;  for  this,  beyond  all,  is  the 
hallmark  of  your  quality.  Indeed  it  was  well  that  I 
was  so  far  fit  to  show  my  face,  since  I  was  to  be 
plunged  into  the  midst  of  the  stream  with  a  sudden- 
ness which  startled,  although  it  could  not  displease 
me.  For  the  first  beginning  I  was  indebted  to  Mr. 
Darrell ;  for  what  followed  to  myself  alone  and  a  tem- 
per that  has  never  been  of  the  most  patient. 

We  had  reached  our  inn  and  refreshed  ourselves, 
and  I  was  standing  looking  out  on  the  evening  and 
wondering  at  what  time  it  was  proper  for  me  to  seek 
my  bed  when  my  friend  entered  with  an  eager  air, 
and  advanced  towards  me,  crying, — 

"  Dear  sir,  I  hope  your  wardrobe  is  in  order,  for  I 


Cydaria  Revealed.  41 

am  resolved  to  redeem  my  word  forthwith,  and  to- 
night to  carry  you  with  me  to  an  entertainment  for 
which  I  have  received  an  invitation.  I  am  most  anx- 
ious for  you  to  accompany  me  as  we  shall  meet  many 
whom  you  should  know." 

I  was,  of  course,  full  of  excuses,  but  he  would  admit 
of  one  only ;  and  that  one  I  could  not  or  would  not 
make.  For  I  had  provided  myself  with  a  neat  and 
proper  suit,  of  which  I  was  very  far  from  ashamed  and 
which,  when  assumed  by  me  and  set  off  with  a  new 
cloak  to  match  it,  was  declared  by  Mr.  Darrell  to  be 
most  apt  for  the  occasion. 

"  You  lack  nothing  but  a  handsome  cane,"  said  he, 
"and  that  I  can  myself  provide.  Come,  let  us  call 
chairs  and  be  gone,  for  it  grows  late  already." 

Our  host  that  evening  was  Mr.  Jermyn,  a  gentleman 
in  great  repute  at  Court,  and  he  entertained  us  most 
handsomely  at  the  New  Spring  Garden,  according  to 
me  a  welcome  of  especial  courtesy,  that  I  might  be  at 
my  ease  and  feel  no  stranger  among  the  company. 
He  placed  me  on  his  left  hand,  Darrell  being  on  my 
other  side,  whilst  opposite  to  me  sat  my  lord  the  Earl 
of  Carford,  a  fine-looking  man  of  thirty  or  a  year  or 
two  above.  Among  the  guests  Mr.  Darrell  indicated 
several  whose  names  were  known  to  me,  such  as  the 
witty  Lord  Rochester  and  the  French  Ambassador, 
M.  de  Cominges,  a  very  stately  gentleman.  These, 
however,  being  at  the  other  end  of  the  table,  I  made 
no  acquaintance  with  them  and  contented  myself  with 
listening  to  the  conversation  of  my  neighbours,  put- 
ting in  a  word  where  I  seemed  able  with  propriety 
and  without  displaying  an  ignorance  of  which  I  was 
very  sensible.  It  seemed  to  me  that  Lord  Carford,  to 
whom  I  had  not  been  formally  presented  (indeed  all 
talked  to  one  another  without  ceremony)  received 
what  I  said  with  more  than  sufficient  haughtiness  and 
distance,  but  on  Darrell  whispering  humourously  that 


42  Simon  Dale* 

he  was  a  great  lord  and  held  himself  even  greater  than 
he  was,  I  made  little  of  it,  thinking  my  best  revenge 
would  be  to  give  him  a  lesson  in  courtesy.  Thus  all 
went  well  till  we  had  finished  eating  and  sat  sipping 
our  wine.  Then  my  Lord  Carford,  being  a  little  over- 
heated with  what  he  had  drunk,  began  suddenly  to 
inveigh  against  the  King  with  remarkable  warmth  and 
freedom,  so  that  it  seemed  evident  that  he  smarted 
under  some  recent  grievance.  The  raillery  of  our 
host,  not  too  nice  or  delicate,  soon  spurred  him  to  a 
discovery  of  his  complaint.  He  asked  nothing  better 
than  to  be  urged  to  a  disclosure. 

"  Neither  rank,  nor  friendship,  nor  service,"  he  said, 
smiting  the  table,  "  are  enough  to  gain  the  smallest 
favour  from  the  King.  All  goes  to  the  women  ;  they 
have  but  to  ask  to  have.  I  prayed  the  King  to  give 
me  for  a  cousin  of  mine  a  place  in  the  Life  Guards 
that  was  to  be  vacant,  and  he — by  Heaven,  he 
promised  !  Then  comes  Nell,  and  Nell  wants  it  for  a 
friend,  and  Nell  has  it  for  a  friend — and  I  go  empty  !  " 

I  had  started  when  he  spoke  of  the  Life  Guards,  and 
sat  now  in  a  state  of  great  disturbance.  Darrell  also, 
as  I  perceived,  was  very  uneasy  and  made  a  hasty 
effort  to  alter  the  course  of  the  conversation  ;  but  Mr. 
Jermyn  would  not  have  it. 

"  Who  is  the  happy — the  new  happy  man,  that  is 
Mistress  Nell's  friend?"  he  asked,  smiling. 

"  Some  clod  from  the  country,"  returned  the  Earl ; 
"  his  name,  they  say,  is  Dale." 

I  felt  my  heart  beating,  but  I  trust  that  I  looked 
cool  enough  as  I  leant  across  and  said, — 

"Your  lordship  is  misinformed.  I  have  the  best  of 
reasons  for  saying  so." 

"  The  reasons  may  be  good,  sir,"  he  retorted,  with  a 
stare,  "  but  they  are  not  evident." 

"I  am  myself  just  named  to  a  commission  in  the 
King's  Life  Guards,  and  my  name  is  Dale,"  said  I, 


Cydaria  Revealed.  43 

restraining  myself  to  a  show  of  composure,  for  I  felt 
Darrell's  hand  on  my  arm. 

"  By  my  faith  then,  you're  the  happy  man,"  sneered 
Carford  ;  "  I  congratulate  you  on  your — 

"Stay,  stay,  Carford,"  interposed  Mr.  Jermyn. 

"  — on  your — godmother,"  said  Carford. 

"  You're  misinformed,  my  lord,"  I  repeated  fiercely, 
although  by  now  a  great  fear  had  come  upon  me.  I 
knew  whom  they  meant  by  "  Nell." 

"By  God,  sir,  I'm  not  misinformed,"  said  he. 

"  By  God,  my  lord,"  said  I — though  I  had  not  been 
wont  to  swear — "  By  God,  my  lord,  you  are." 

Our  voices  had  risen  in  anger  ;  a  silence  fell  on  the 
party,  all  turning  from  their  talk  to  listen  to  us.  Car- 
ford's  face  went  red  when  I  gave  him  the  lie  so 
directly,  and  the  more  fiercely  because,  to  my  shame 
and  wonder,  I  had  begun  to  suspect  that  what  he  said 
was  no  lie.  But  I  followed  up  the  attack  briskly. 

"  Therefore,  my  lord,"  I  said,  "  I  will  beg  of  you 
to  confess  your  error,  and  withdraw  what  you  have 
said." 

He  burst  into  a  laugh. 

"  If  I  weren't  ashamed  to  take  a  favour  from  such  a 
hand,  I  wouldn't  be  ashamed  to  own  it,"  said  he. 

I  rose  from  my  seat  and  bowed  to  him  gravely. 
All  understood  my  meaning,  but  he,  choosing  to  treat 
me  with  insolence,  did  not  rise  nor  return  my  salute, 
but  sat  where  he  was,  smiling  scornfully. 

"  You  don't  understand  me,  it  seems,  my  lord,"  said 
I.  "  May  be  this  will  quicken  your  wits,"  and  I  flung 
the  napkin  which  had  been  brought  to  me  after  meat 
lightly  in  his  face.  He  sprang  up  quickly  enough  then, 
and  so  did  all  the  company.  Darrell  caught  me  by 
the  arm  and  held  me  fast.  Jermyn  was  by  Carford's 
side.  I  hardly  knew  what  passed,  being  much  upset 
by  the  sudden  quarrel,  and  yet  more  by  the  idea  that 
Carford's  words  had  put  in  my  head.  I  saw  Jermyn 


44  Simon  Dale* 

come  forward,  and  Darrell,  loosing  my  arm,  went  and 
spoke  to  him.  Lord  Carford  resumed  his  seat ;  I 
leant  against  the  back  of  my  chair  and  waited.  Dar- 
rell was  not  long  in  returning  to  me. 

"  You'd  best  go  home,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  I'll  arrange  everything.  You  must  meet  to-morrow 
morning." 

I  nodded  my  head ;  I  had  grown  cool  and  collected 
now.  Bowing  slightly  to  Carford,  and  low  to  my  host 
and  the  company,  I  turned  to  the  door.  As  I  passed 
through  it,  I  heard  the  talk  break  out  again  behind 
me.  I  got  into  my  chair,  which  was  waiting,  and  was 
carried  back  to  my  inn  in  a  half-mazed  state.  I  gave 
little  thought  to  the  quarrel  or  to  the  meeting  that 
awaited  me.  My  mind  was  engrossed  with  the  revela- 
tion to  which  I  had  listened.  I  doubted  it  still ;  nay, 
I  would  not  believe  it.  Yet  whence  came  the  story 
unless  it  were  true  ?  And  it  seemed  to  fit  most  aptly 
and  most  lamentably  with  what  had  befallen  me,  and 
to  throw  light  on  what  had  been  a  puzzle.  It  was 
hard  on  four  years  since  I  had  parted  from  Cydaria ; 
but  that  night  I  felt  that,  if  the  thing  were  true,  I 
should  receive  Carford's  point  in  my  heart  without  a 
pang. 

Being,  as  may  be  supposed,  little  inclined  for  sleep, 
I  turned  into  the  public-room  of  the  inn  and  called  for 
a  bottle  of  wine.  The  room  was  empty  save  for  a 
lanky  fellow,  very  plainly  dressed,  who  sat  at  the  table 
reading  a  book.  He  was  drinking  nothing,  and  when 
— my  wine  having  been  brought — I  called  in  courtesy 
for  a  second  glass  and  invited  him  to  join  me,  he 
shook  his  head  sourly.  Yet  presently  he  closed  his 
book,  which  I  now  perceived  to  be  a  Bible,  and  fixed 
an  earnest  gaze  on  me.  He  was  a  strange  looking 
fellow  ;  his  face  was  very  thin  and  long,  and  his  hair 
(for  he  wore  his  own  and  no  wig)  hung  straight  from 
the  crown  of  his  head  in  stiff  wisps.  I  set  him  down 


Cydaria  Revealed.  45 

as  a  Ranter,  and  was  in  no  way  surprised  when  he 
began  to  inveigh  against  the  evils  of  the  times,  and  to 
prophesy  the  judgment  of  God  on  the  sins  of  the  city. 

"  Pestilence  hath  come  and  fire  hath  come,"  lie  cried. 
"  Yet  wickedness  is  not  put  away,  and  lewdness  vaunt- 
eth  herself,  and  the  long-suffering  of  God  is  abused." 

All  this  seeming  to  me  very  tedious,  I  sipped  my 
wine  and  made  no  answer.  I  had  enough  to  think  of, 
and  was  content  to  let  the  sinners  of  the  city  alone. 

"  The  foul  superstition  of  Papacy  raises  its  head 
again,"  he  went  on,  "and  godly  men  are  persecuted." 

"Those  same  godly  men,"  said  I,  "have  had  their 
turn  before  now,  sir.  To  many  it  seems  as  if  they 
were  only  receiving  what  they  gave."  For  the  fellow 
had  roused  me  to  some  little  temper  by  his  wearisome 
cursing. 

"  But  the  Time  of  the  Lord  is  at  hand,"  he  pursued, 
"and  all  men  shall  see  the  working  of  His  wrath. 
Aye,  it  shall  be  seen  even  in  palaces." 

"  If  I  were  you,  sir,"  said  I,  dryly,  "  I  would  not 
talk  thus  before  strangers.  There  might  be  danger  in 
it." 

He  scanned  my  face  closely  for  a  few  moments ; 
then,  leaning  across  towards  me,  he  said  earnestly, — 

"You  are  young,  and  you  look  honest.  Be  warned 
in  time ;  fight  on  the  Lord's  side,  and  not  among  His 
enemies.  Verily  the  time  cometh." 

I  had  met  many  of  these  mad  fellows,  for  the  country 
was  full  of  them,  some  being  disbanded  soldiers  of  the 
Commonwealth,  some  ministers  who  had  lost  their 
benefices  ;  but  this  fellow  seemed  more  crazy  than  any 
I  had  seen,  though,  indeed,  I  must  confess  there  was 
a  full  measure  of  truth,  if  not  of  charity,  in  the  de- 
scription of  the  King's  Court  on  which  he  presently 
launched  himself  with  great  vigour  of  declamation  and 
an  intense,  although  ridiculous,  exhibition  of  piety. 

"  You  may  be  very  right,  sir " 


46  Simon  Dale. 

"  My  name  is  Phineas  Tate." 

"  You  may  be  very  right,  friend  Phineas,"  said  I, 
yawning,  "  but  I  can't  alter  all  this.  Go  and  preach 
to  the  King." 

"  The  King  shall  be  preached  to  in  words  that  he 
must  hear,"  he  retorted,  with  a  frown,  "  but  the  time 
is  not  yet." 

"  The  time  now  is  to  seek  our  beds,"  said  I,  smiling. 
"  Do  you  lodge  here  ?  " 

"  For  this  night  I  lie  here.  To-morrow  I  preach  to 
this  city." 

"  Then  I  fear  you  are  likely  to  lie  in  a  less  comfort- 
able place  to-morrow."  And,  bidding  him  good-night, 
I  turned  to  go.  But  he  sprang  after  me,  crying 
"  Remember,  the  time  is  short,"  and  I  doubt  whether 
I  should  have  got  rid  of  him  had  not  Darrell  at  that 
moment  entered  the  room.  To  my  surprise,  the  two 
seemed  to  know  one  another,  for  Darrell  broke  into  a 
scornful  laugh,  exclaiming, — 

"  Again,  Master  Tate  !  What,  haven't  you  left  this 
accursed  city  to  its  fate  yet?" 

"It  awaits  its  fate,"  answered  the  Ranter,  sternly, 
"  even,  as  those  of  your  superstition  wait  theirs." 

"  My  superstition  must  look  out  for  itself,"  said 
Darrell,  with  a  shrug  ;  and,  seeing  that  I  was  puzzled, 
he  added,  "  Mr.  Tate  is  not  pleased  with  me  because  I 
am  of  the  old  religion." 

"  Indeed?"  I  cried.  "  I  didn't  know  you  were  a — 
of  the  old  Church."  For  I  remembered  with  con- 
fusion a  careless  remark  that  I  had  let  fall  as  we 
journeyed  together. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  simply. 

"  Yes  !  "  cried  Tate.  "  You — and  your  master  also, 
is  he  not  ?  " 

Darrell's  face  grew  stern  and  cold. 

"  I  would  have  you  careful,  sir,  when  you  touch  on 
my  Lord  Arlington's  name,"  he  said.  "  You  know 


Cydaria  Revealed*  47 

well  that  he  is  not  of  the  Roman  faith,  but  is  a  con- 
vinced adherent  of  the  Church  of  this  country." 

"Is  he  so?"  asked  Tate,  with  an  undisguised 
sneer. 

"Come,  enough!"  cried  Darrell,  in  sudden  anger. 
"  I  have  much  to  say  to  my  friend,  and  shall  be  glad 
to  be  left  alone  with  him." 

Tate  made  no  objection  to  leaving  us,  and,  gather- 
ing up  his  Bible,  went  out,  scowling. 

"  A  pestilent  fellow,"  said  Darrell.  "  He'll  find 
himself  laid  by  the  heels  before  long.  Well,  I  have 
settled  your  affair  with  my  Lord  Carford." 

But  my  affair  with  Carford  was  not  what  I  wanted 
to  hear  about.  I  came  to  him  as  he  sat  down  at  the 
table,  and,  laying  my  hand  on  his  shoulder,  asked 
simply, — 

"Is  it  true?" 

He  looked  up  at  me  with  great  kindness,  and  an- 
swered gently, — 

"  It  is  true.  I  guessed  it  as  soon  as  you  spoke  of 
Cydaria.  For  Cydaria  was  the  part  in  which  she  first 
gained  the  favour  of  the  town,  and  that,  taken  with 
your  description  of  her,  gave  me  no  room  for  doubt. 
Yet  I  hoped  that  it  might  not  be  as  I  feared,  or  at 
least  that  the  thing  could  be  hidden.  It  seems,  though, 
that  the  saucy  wench  has  made  no  secret  of  it.  Thus 
you  are  landed  in  this  quarrel,  and  with  a  good  swords- 
man." 

"  I  care  nothing  for  the  quarrel — "  I  began. 

"  Nay,  but  it  is  worse  than  you  think.  For  Lord 
Carford  is  the  gentleman  of  whom  I  spoke,  when  I 
told  you  that  Mistress  Quinton  had  a  noble  suitor. 
And  he  is  high  in  her  favour  and  higher  yet  in  her 
father's.  A  quarrel  with  him,  and  on  such  a  cause, 
will  do  you  no  good  in  Lord  Quinton's  eyes." 

Indeed  it  seemed  as  though  all  the  Furies  had  com- 
bined to  vex  me.  Yet  still  my  desire  was  to  learn  of 


48  Simon  Dale. 

Cydaria,  for  even  now  I  could  hardly  believe  what 
Darrell  told  me.  Sitting  down  by  him  I  listened 
while  he  related  to  me  what  he  knew  of  her;  it  was 
little  more  than  the  mentioning  of  her  true  name  told 
me,  a  name  familiar,  alas,  through  all  the  country, 
sung  in  ballads,  bandied  to  and  fro  in  talk,  dragged 
even  into  high  disputes  that  touched  the  nation's  for- 
tunes ;  for  in  those  strange  days,  when  the  world 
seemed  a  very  devil's  comedy,  great  countries,  aye, 
and  Holy  Churches,  fought  behind  the  mask  of  an 
actress's  face  or  chose  a  fair  lady  for  their  champion. 
I  hope  indeed  that  the  end  sanctified  the  means ; 
they  had  great  need  of  that  final  justification.  Cas- 
tlemaine  and  Nell  Gwyn — had  we  not  all  read  and 
heard  and  gossipped  of  them  ?  Our  own  Vicar  had 
spoken  to  me  of  Nell  and  would  not  speak  too 
harshly,  for  Nell  was  Protestant.  Yes,  Nell,  so  please 
you,  was  Protestant.  And  other  grave  divines  for- 
gave her  half  her  sins  because  she  flouted  most  openly 
and  with  pert  wit  the  other  lady  who  was  suspected 
of  an  inclination  towards  Rome  and  an  intention  to 
charm  the  King  into  the  True  Church's  bosom?  I 
also  could  have  forgiven  her  much  ;  for,  saving  my 
good  Darrell's  presence,  I  hated  a  Papist  worse  than 
any  man,  saving  a  Ranter.  Yes,  I  would  have  for- 
given her  all,  and  applauded  her  pretty  face  and 
laughed  at  her  pretty  ways.  I  had  looked  to  do  as 
much  when  I  came  to  town,  being,  I  must  confess,  as 
little  straight-laced  as  most  young  men.  But  I  had 
not  known  that  the  thing  was  to  touch  me  close. 
Could  I  forgive  her'my  angry  humiliation  and  my  sore 
heart,  bruised  love  and  burning  ridicule?  I  could 
forgive  her  for  being  all  she  now  was.  How  could  I 
forgive  her  for  having  been  once  my  Cydaria  ? 

"  Well,  you  must  fight,"  said  Darrell,  "  although  it  is 
not  a  good  quarrel,"  and  he  shook  my  hand  very 
kindly,  with  a  sigh  of  friendship. 


Cydaria  Revealed,  49 

"Yes,  I  must  fight,"  said  I,  "and  after  that— if 
there  be  an  after — I  must  go  to  Whitehall." 

"To  take  up  your  commission  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  To  lay  it  down,  Mr.  Darrell,"  said  I,  with  a  touch 
of  haughtiness.  "  You  don't  think  that  I  could  bear 
it,  since  it  comes  from  such  a  source?" 

He  pressed  my  hand,  saying  with  a  smile  that 
seemed  tender, — 

"You're  from  the  country.  Not  one  in  ten  would 
quarrel  with  that  here." 

"  Yes,  I'm  from  the  country,"  said  I.  "  It  was  in 
the  country  that  I  knew  Cydaria." 


CHAPTER  V. 
I  am  Forbidden  to  Forget* 

IT  must  be  allowed  that  by  no  possible  union  of  un- 
lucky chances  could  I,  desiring  to  appear  as  a  staid, 
sober  gentleman  and  not  as  a  ruffler  or  debauched 
gallant,  have  had  a  worse  introduction  to  my  new  life. 
To  start  with  a  duel  would  have  hurt  me  little,  but  a 
duel  on  such  a  cause  and  on  behalf  of  such  a  lady  (for 
I  should  seem  to  be  fighting  the  battle  of  one  whose 
name  was  past  defending)  would  make  my  reputation 
ridiculous  to  the  gay,  and  offensive  to  all  the  more 
decent  people  of  the  town.  I  thought  enough  on 
this  sad  side  of  the  matter  that  night  at  the  inn,  and 
despair  would  have  made  a  prey  of  me  had  I  not 
hoped  to  clear  myself  in  some  degree  by  the  step  on 
which  I  had  determined.  For  I  was  resolved  to 
abandon  the  aid  in  my  career  that  the  King's  unex- 
pected favour  had  offered,  and  start  afresh  for  myself, 
free  from  the  illicit  advantage  of  a  place  gained  un- 
deservedly. Yet,  amid  my  chagrin,  and  in  spite  of  my 
virtuous  intentions  I  found  myself  wondering  that 
Cydaria  had  remembered  ;  I  will  not  protest  that  I 
found  no  pleasure  in  the  thought;  a  young  man  whose 
pride  was  not  touched  by  it  would  have  reached  a 
higher  summit  of  severity  or  a  lower  depth  of  in- 
sensibility than  was  mine.  Yet  here  also  I  made 
vows  of  renunciation,  concerning  which  there  is 
nought  to  say  but  that,  while  very  noble,  they  were 
in  all  likelihood  most  uncalled  for.  What  would  or 


I  am  Forbidden  to  Forget.  5 1 

could  Cydaria  be  to  me  now?  She  flew  at  bigger 
game.  She  had  flung  me  a  kindly  crumb  of  re- 
membrance ;  she  would  think  that  we  were  well  quit, 
nay,  that  I  was  overpaid  for  my  bruised  heart  and  dis- 
sipated illusion. 

It  was  a  fine  fresh  morning  when  Mr.  Darrell  and  I 
set  out  for  the  place  of  meeting,  he  carrying  a  pair  of 
swords.  Mr.  Jermyn  had  agreed  to  support  my  op- 
ponent, and  I  was  glad  to  learn  that  the  meeting  was 
to  be  restricted  to  the  principals,  and  not,  as  too  often 
occurred,  to  embroil  the  seconds  also  in  a  senseless 
quarrel.  We  walked  briskly,  and  crossing  the  Oxford 
Road  at  Holborn  struck  into  the  fields  beyond  Mon- 
tague House.  We  were  first  at  the  rendezvous,  but 
had  not  to  wait  long  before  three  chairs  appeared, 
containing  Lord  Carford,  his  second,  and  a  surgeon. 
The  chairmen,  having  set  down  their  burdens,  with- 
drew some  way  off,  and  we,  being  left  to  ourselves, 
made  our  preparations  as  quickly  as  we  might,  Darrell 
especially  urging  speed ;  for  it  seemed  that  a  rumour 
of  the  affair  had  got  about  the  town,  and  he  had  no 
desire  for  spectators. 

Now  although  I  desire  to  write  without  malice  and 
to  render  fullest  justice  to  those  whom  I  have  least 
cause  to  love,  I  am  bound  to  say  that  my  Lord  Car- 
ford  seemed  to  be  most  bitterly  incensed  against  me, 
whereas  I  was  in  no  way  incensed  against  him.  In 
the  first  instance  he  had  offended  without  premedita- 
tion, for  he  had  not  known  who  I  was;  his  subsequent 
insolence  might  find  excuse  in  the  peremptory  phras- 
ing of  my  demand  for  apology,  too  curt  perhaps  for  a 
young  and  untried  man.  Honour  forced  me  to  fight, 
but  nothing  forced  me  to  hate,  and  I  asked  no  better 
than  that  we  should  both  escape  with  as  little  hurt  as 
the  laws  of  the  game  allowed.  His  mood  was  dif- 
ferent ;  he  had  been  bearded  and  was  in  a  mind  to  give 
my  beard  a  pull — I  speak  in  a  metaphor,  for  beard  had 


52  Simon  Dale* 

I  none — and  possessing  some  reputation  as  a  swords- 
man he  could  not  well  afford  to  let  me  go  untouched. 
An  old  sergeant  of  General  Cromwell's,  resident  at 
Norwich,  had  instructed  me  in  the  use  of  the  foils,  but 
I  was  not  my  lord's  equal,  and  I  set  it  down  to  my 
good  luck  and  his  fury  that  I  came  off  no  worse  than 
the  event  proved.  For  he  made  at  me  with  great  im- 
petuosity, and  from  beginning  to  end  of  the  affair  I 
was  wholly  concerned  in  defending  myself;  this  much 
I  achieved  successfully  for  some  moments,  and  I  heard 
Mr.  Jermyn  say,  "  But  he  stands  his  ground  well"; 
then  came  a  cunning  feint  followed  by  a  fierce  attack 
and  a  sharp  pang  in  my  left  arm  near  the  shoulder, 
while  the  sleeve  of  my  shirt  went  red  in  a  moment. 
The  seconds  darted  in  between  us,  and  Darrell  caught 
me  round  the  waist. 

"  I'm  glad  it  was  no  worse,"  I  whispered  to  him  with 
a  smile ;  then  I  turned  very  sick  and  the  meadow 
started  to  go  round  and  round  me.  For  some  minutes 
I  knew  nothing  more,  but  when  I  revived,  the  surgeon 
was  busy  in  binding  up  my  arm,  while  the  three  gen- 
tlemen stood  together  in  a  group  a  little  way  apart. 
My  legs  shook  under  me  and  doubtless  I  was  as  white 
as  my  mother's  best  linen,  but  I  was  very  happy,  feel- 
ing that  my  honour  was  safe  and  that  I  had  been  as  it 
were  baptised  of  the  company  of  gentlemen.  So  Mr. 
Jermyn  seemed  to  think  ;  for  when  my  arm  was  dressed 
and  I  had  got  my  clothes  on  again  with  some  pain  and 
a  silken  sling  under  my  elbow,  he  came  and  craved  the 
surgeon's  leave  to  carry  me  off  to  breakfast.  The  re- 
quest was  granted  on  a  promise  that  I  should  abstain 
from  inflaming  food  and  from  all  strong  liquors.  Ac- 
cordingly we  set  out,  I  dissembling  a  certain  surprise 
inspired  in  my  countryman's  mind  by  the  discovery 
that  my  late  enemy  proposed  to  be  of  the  party. 
Having  come  to  a  tavern  in  Drury  Lane,  we  were  re- 
galed very  pleasantly,  Mr.  Jermyn  who  (although  a 


I  am  Forbidden  to  Forget.  53 

small  man  and  not,  in  my  opinion,  well-shaped)  might 
be  seen  to  hold  himself  in  good  esteem,  recounting  to 
us  his  adventures  in  love  and  his  exploits  on  the  field 
of  honour.  Meanwhile  Lord  Carford  treated  me  with 
distinguished  courtesy  and  I  was  at  a  loss  to  under- 
stand his  changed  humour  until  it  appeared  that 
Darrell  had  acquainted  him  with  my  resolution  to 
surrender  the  commission  that  the  King  had  bestowed 
on  me.  As  we  grew  more  free  with  one  another  his 
lordship  referred  plainly  to  the  matter,  declaring  that 
my  conduct  showed  the  nicest  honour  and  praying  me 
to  allow  his  own  surgeon  to  visit  me  every  day  until 
my  wound  should  be  fully  cured.  His  marked  polite- 
ness and  the  friendliness  of  the  others  put  me  in  better 
humour  than  I  had  been  since  the  discovery  of  the 
evening  before,  and  when  our  meal  was  ended  about 
eleven  o'clock,  I  was  well-nigh  reconciled  to  life  again. 
Yet  it  was  not  long  before  Carford  and  I  were  again 
good  enemies,  and  crossed  swords  with  no  less  zest  al- 
though on  a  different  field. 

I  had  been  advised  by  Darrell  to  return  at  once  to 
my  inn,  and  there  rest  quietly  until  evening,  leaving 
my  journey  to  Whitehall  for  the  next  day,  lest  too 
much  exertion  should  induce  a  fever  in  me;  and  in 
obedience  to  his  counsel  I  began  to  walk  gently  along 
Drury  Lane  on  my  way  back  to  Covent  Garden.  My 
Lord  Carford  and  Mr.  Jermyn  had  gone  off  to  a  cock- 
fight, where  the  King  was  to  be,  while  Darrell  had  to 
wait  upon  the  Secretary  at  his  offices ;  therefore  I  was 
alone,  and,  going  easily,  found  fully  enough  to  occupy 
my  attention  in  the  business  and  incredible  stir  of  the 
town.  I  thought  then  and  think  still  that  nowhere  in 
the  world  is  there  such  a  place  for  an  idle  man  as  Lon- 
don. Where  else  has  he  spread  for  him  so  continual  a 
banquet  of  contemplation  ?  where  else  are  such  come- 
dies played  every  hour  for  his  eyes'  delight  ?  It  is  well 
enough  to  look  at  a  running  river,  or  to  gaze  at  such 


54  Simon  Dale* 

mighty  mountains  as  I  saw  when  I  journeyed  many 
years  later  into  Italy;  but  the  mountain  moves  not, 
and  the  stream  runs  always  with  the  same  motion  and 
in  its  wonted  channel.  Give  me  these  for  my  age,  but 
to  a  young  man  a  great  city  is  queen  of  all. 

So  I  was  thinking  as  I  walked  along — or  so  I  think 
now  that  I  must  have  thought,  for  in  writing  of  his 
youth  it  is  hard  for  a  man  to  be  sure  that  he  does  not 
transfer  to  that  golden  page  some  of  the  paler  charac- 
ters which  later  years  print  on  his  mind.  Perhaps  I 
thought  of  nothing  at  all,  save  that  this  man  here  was 
a  fine  fellow,  that  girl  there  a  pretty  wench,  that  my 
coat  became  me  well,  and  my  wounded  arm  gave  me 
an  interesting  air.  Be  my  meditations  what  they 
might,  they  were  suddenly  interrupted  by  the  sight 
of  a  crowd  in  the  Lane  near  to  the  Cock  and  Pie 
tavern.  Here  fifty  or  sixty  men  and  women,  decent 
folk  some,  others  porters,  flower-girls,  and  such  like, 
were  gathered  in  a  circle  round  a  man  who  was  pour- 
ing out  an  oration  or  sermon  with  great  zeal  and 
vehemence.  Having  drawn  nearer,  I  paused  out  of  a 
curiosity  which  turned  to  amusement  when  I  dis- 
covered in  the  preacher  my  good  friend  Phineas  Tate, 
with  whom  I  had  talked  the  evening  before.  It 
seemed  that  he  had  set  about  his  task  without  delay, 
and  if  London  were  still  unmindful  of  its  sins,  the 
fault  was  not  to  lie  at  Mr.  Tate's  door.  On  he 
plunged,  sparing  neither  great  nor  small :  if  the  Court 
were  sinful,  so  was  Drury  Lane ;  if  Castlemaine  (he 
dealt  freely  in  names,  and  most  sparingly  in  titles  of 
courtesy)  were  what  he  roundly  said  she  was,  which  of 
the  women  about  him  was  not  the  same?  How  did 
they  differ  from  their  betters,  unless  it  were  that  their 
price  was  not  so  high?  and  in  what,  save  audacity, 
were  they  behind  Eleanor  Gwyn  ?  He  hurled  this 
last  name  forth  as  though  it  marked  a  climax  of 
iniquity,  and  a  start  ran  through  me  as  I  heard  it 


I  am  Forbidden  to  Forget.  55 

thus  treated.  Strange  to  say,  something  of  the  same 
effect  seemed  to  be  produced  on  his  other  hearers. 
Hitherto  they  had  listened  with  good-natured  toler- 
ance, winking  at  one  another,  laughing  when  the 
preacher's  finger  pointed  at  a  neighbour,  shrugging 
comfortable  shoulders  when  it  turned  against  them- 
selves. They  are  long  suffering  under  abuse,  the  folk 
of  London;  you  may  say  much  what  you  will,  pro- 
vided you  allow  them  to  do  what  they  will,  and  they 
support  the  imputation  of  unrighteousness  with  mar- 
vellous composure,  as  long  as  no  man  takes  it  in 
hand  to  force  them  to  righteousness.  As  they  are 
now,  they  were  then,  though  many  changes  have 
passed  over  the  country  and  the  times;  so  will  they 
be,  although  more  transformations  come. 

But,  as  I  say,  this  last  name  stirred  the  group  to  a 
new  mood.  Friend  Phineas  perceived  the  effect  that 
he  had  made,  but  set  a  wrong  meaning  on  it.  Taking 
it  as  ground  for  encouragement,  he  loosed  his  tongue 
yet  more  outrageously,  and  so  battered  the  unhappy 
subject  of  his  censures  that  my  ears  tingled,  and  sud- 
denly I  strode  quickly  up  to  the  group,  intent  on 
silencing  him  ;  but  a  great  brawny  porter,  with  a  dirty 
red  face,  was  beforehand  with  me.  Elbowing  his  way 
irresistibly  through  the  ranks,  he  set  himself  squarely 
before  Phineas,  and,  wagging  his  head  significantly 
enough,  growled  out, — 

"  Say  what  you  will  of  Castlemaine  and  the  rest, 
Master  Ranter,  but  keep  your  tongue  off  Nelly." 

A  murmur  of  applause  ran  round.  They  knew 
Nelly;  here  in  the  Lane  was  her  kingdom. 

"  Let  Nelly  alone,"  said  the  porter,  "  if  you  value 
whole  bones,  master." 

Phineas  was  no  coward,  and  threats  served  only  to 
fan  the  flame  of  his  zeal.  I  had  started  to  stop  his 
mouth  ;  it  seemed  likely  that  I  must  employ  myself 
in  saving  his  head.  His  lean  frame  would  crack  and 


5  6  Simon  Dale* 

break  in  the  grasp  of  his  mighty  assailant,  and  I  was 
loth  that  the  fool  should  come  to  harm  ;  so  I  began 
to  push  my  way  through  towards  the  pair,  and 
arrived  just  as  Phineas,  having  shot  a  most  pointed 
dart,  was  about  to  pay  for  his  too  great  skill  with  a 
blow  from  the  porter's  mutton-fist.  I  caught  the  fel- 
low's arm  as  he  raised  it,  and  he  turned  fiercely  on 
me,  growling,  "  Are  you  his  friend  then  ?  " 

'  Not  I,"  I  answered.     "But  you'd  kill  him,  man." 

"  Let  him  heed  what  he  says  then.  Kill  him  ! 
Aye,  and  spare  him  readily  !  " 

The  affair  looked  awkward  enough,  for  the  feeling 
was  all  one  way,  and  I  could  do  little  to  hinder  any 
violence.  A  girl  in  the  crowd  reminded  me  of  my 
helplessness,  touching  my  wounded  arm  lightly  and 
saying,  "  Are  you  hungry  for  more  fighting,  sir?" 

"  He's  a  madman,"  said  I.  "  Let  him  alone.  Who 
heeds  what  he  says?  " 

Friend  Phineas  did  not  take  my  defence  in  good 
part. 

"  Mad,  am  I  ?  "  he  roared,  beating  with  his  fist  on  his 
Bible.  "You'll  know  who  was  mad,  when  you  lie 

howling  in  hell  fire.     And  with  you  that "     And 

on  he  went  again  at  poor  Nell. 

The  great  porter  could  endure  no  more.  With  a 
seemingly  gentle  motion  of  his  hand  he  thrust  me 
aside,  pushing  me  on  to  the  bosom  of  a  buxom  flower- 
girl  who,  laughing  boisterously,  wound  a  pair  of  sturdy 
red  arms  round  me;  then  he  stepped  forward,  and, 
seizing  Phineas  by  the  scruff  of  the  neck,  shook  him  as 
a  dog  shakes  a  rat.  To  what  more  violence  he  would 
have  proceeded,  I  do  not  know ;  for  suddenly  from 
above  us,  out  of  a  window  of  the  Cock  and  Pie,  came 
a  voice  which  sent  a  stir  through  my  veins. 

"  Good  people,  good  people,"  said  the  voice,  "what 
with  preaching  and!  brawling,  a  body  can  get  no  sleep 
in  the  Lane.  Pray  go  and  work,  or  if  you've  no  work, 


I  am  Forbidden  to  Forget,  57 

go  and  drink.  Here  are  the  means,"  and  a  shower  of 
small  coins  came  flying  down  on  our  heads,  causing  an 
immediate  wild  scramble.  My  flower-girl  loosed  me 
that  she  might  take  her  part  in  this  fray  ;  the  porter 
stood  motionless,  still  holding  poor  Phineas,  limp  and 
lank,  in  his  hand ;  and  I  turned  my  eyes  upwards  to 
the  window  of  the  Cock  and  Pie. 

I  looked  up  and  I  saw  her.  Her  sunny  brown  hair 
was  about  her  shoulders,  her  knuckles  rubbed  her 
sleepy  eyes  to  brightness,  and  a  loose  white  bodice, 
none  too  high  nor  too  carefully  buttoned  about  the 
neck,  showed  that  her  dressing  was  not  done.  Indeed 
she  made  a  pretty  picture,  as  she  leant  out,  laughing 
softly,  and  now  shading  her  face  from  the  sun  with 
one  hand,  while  she  raised  the  other  in  mocking  re- 
proof of  the  preacher. 

"  Fie,  sir,  fie,"  she  said.  "  Why  fall  on  a  poor  girl 
who  earns  an  honest  living,  gives  to  the  needy,  and  is 
withal  a  good  Protestant?"  Then  she  called  to  the 
porter :  "  Let  him  go  with  what  life  you've  left  in 
him.  Let  him  go." 

"  You  heard  what  he  said  of  you — "  began  the  fel- 
low, sullenly. 

"  Aye,  I  hear  what  everybody  says  of  me,"  she  an- 
swered, carelessly.  "  Let  him  go." 

The  porter  sulkily  released  his  prey,  and  Phineas, 
set  free,  began  to  gasp  and  shake  himself.  Another 
coin  whistled  down  to  the  porter,  who,  picking  it  up, 
shambled  off  with  a  last  oath  of  warning  to  his  enemy. 
Then  and  then  only  did  she  look  at  me,  who  had 
never  ceased  to  look  at  her.  When  she  saw  me,  her 
smile  grew  broader,  and  her  eyes  twinkled  in  surprise 
and  delight. 

"A  happy  morning!"  she  said,  clasping  her  little 
hands.  "Ah,  a  happy  morning!  Why,  'tis  Simon, 
my  Simon,  my  little  Simon  from  the  country.  Come 
up  to  me,  Simon.  No,  no,  your  pardon  ;  I'll  come 


58  Simon  Dale. 

down  to  you,  Simon.  In  the  parlour,  in  the  parlour. 
Quick!  I'll  be  down  in  an  instant." 

The  vision  vanished,  but  my  gaze  dwelt  on  the  win- 
dow where  it  had  been,  and  I  needed  Phineas  Tate's 
harsh  voice  to  rouse  me  from  my  stupor. 

"  Who  is  the  woman  ?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Why — why — Mistress  Gwyn  herself  ?  "  I  stam- 
mered. 

"Herself — the  woman  herself?"  he  asked,  eagerly. 
Then  he  suddenly  drew  himself  up,  and,  baring  his 
head,  said  solemnly,  "  Thanks  be  to  God  !  thanks  be 
to  God,  for  it  may  be  His  will  that  this  brand  should 
be  plucked  from  the  burning."  And  before  I  could 
speak  or  attempt  to  hinder  him  he  stepped  swiftly 
across  the  pathway  and  entered  the  tavern.  I,  seeing 
nothing  else  that  I  could  do,  followed  him  straightway 
and  as  fast  as  I  could. 

I  was  in  a  maze  of  feeling.  The  night  before  I  had 
reasoned  with  myself  and  schooled  my  wayward  pas- 
sion to  a  resolve  neither  to  see  nor  to  speak  with  her. 
Resentment  at  the  shame  she  had  brought  on  me 
aided  my  stubbornness,  and  helped  me  to  forget  that 
I  had  been  shamed  because  she  had  remembered  me. 
But  now  I  followed  Phineas  Tate.  For  be  memory 
ever  so  keen  and  clear — yes,  though  it  seem  able  to 
bring  every  feature,  every  shade,  and  every  pose  be- 
fore a  man's  eyes  in  absolute  fidelity — yet  how  poor 
and  weak  a  thing  it  is  beside  the  vivid  sight  of  bodily 
eyes,  that  paints  the  faded  picture  all  afresh  in  hot 
and  glowing  colours ;  and  the  man  who  bade  defiance 
to  the  persuasions  of  his  recollection,  falls  beaten  down 
by  the  fierce  force  of  a  present  vision.  I  followed 
Phineas  Tate,  perhaps  using  some  excuse  with  myself 
—indeed  I  feared  that  he  would  attack  her  rudely  and 
be  cruelly  plain  with  her — yet  knowing  in  my  heart 
that  I  went  because  I  could  do  nothing  else,  and  that 
when  she  called,  every  atom  of  life  in  me  answered  to 


I  am  Forbidden  to  Forget*  59 

her  summons.  So  in  I  went,  to  find  Phineas  standing 
bolt  upright  in  the  parlour  of  the  tavern,  turning  the 
leaves  of  his  book  with  eager  fingers,  as  though  he 
sought  some  text  that  was  in  his  mind.  I  passed  by 
him  and  leant  against  the  wall  by  the  window  ;  so  we 
awaited  her,  each  of  us  eager,  but  with  passions  most 
unlike. 

She  came,  daintily  dressed  now,  although  still  negli- 
gently. She  put  her  head  round  the  corner  of  the 
door,  radiant  with  smiles,  and  with  no  more  shame  or 
embarrassment  than  if  our  meeting  in  this  way  were 
the  most  ordinary  thing.  Then  she  caught  sight  of 
Phineas  Tate  and  cried,  pouting,  "  But  I  wanted  to  be 
alone  with  my  Simon,  my  dear  Simon." 

Phineas  caught  the  cue  her  words  gave  him  with 
perverse  readiness. 

"Alone  with  him,  yes!"  he  cried.  "  But  what  of 
the  time  when  you  must  be  alone  with  God?" 

"  Alas,"  said  she,  coming  in  and  seating  herself  at 
the  table,  "  is  there  more  still  ?  Indeed  I  thought  you 
had  said  all  your  say  outside.  I  am  very  wicked  ;  let 
that  end  it." 

He  advanced  to  the  table  and  stood  directly  oppo- 
site to  her,  stretching  his  arm  towards  her,  while  she 
sat  with  her  chin  on  her  hands,  watching  him  with 
eyes  half  amused,  half  apprehensive. 

"  You  who  live  in  open  sin — "  he  began  ;  before  he 
could  say  more  I  was  by  his  elbow. 

"  Hold  your  tongue,"  I  said.  "  What  is  it  to 
you?" 

"  Let  him  go  on,  Simon,"  said  she. 

And  go  on  he  did,  telling  all — as  I  prayed,  more 
than  all — the  truth,  while  she  heard  him  patiently. 
Yet  now  and  then  she  gave  herself  a  little  shake,  as 
though  to  get  rid  of  something  that  threatened  to 
stick.  Then  he  fell  on  his  knees  and  prayed  fervently, 
she  still  sitting  quiet  and  I  standing  awkwardly  near. 


60  Simon  Dale* 

He  finished  his  prayer  and,  rising  again,  looked  ear- 
nestly at  her.  Her  eyes  met  his  in  good  nature,  almost 
in  friendliness.  He  stretched  out  his  hand  to  her 
again,  saying, — 

"  Child,  cannot  you  understand?  Alas,  your  heart 
is  hardened  !  I  pray  Christ  our  Lord  to  open  your 
eyes  and  change  your  heart,  that  at  the  last  your  soul 
may  be  saved." 

Nelly  examined  the  pink  nails  of  her  right  hand 
with  curious  attention. 

"  I  don't  know  that  I'm  more  of  a  sinner  than 
many  others,"  said  she.  "  Go  to  Court  and  preach, 
sir." 

A  sudden  fury  seemed  to  come  over  him,  and  he 
lost  the  gentleness  with  which  he  had  last  addressed 
her. 

"  The  Word  shall  be  heard  at  the  Court,"  he  cried, 
"in  louder  accents  than  mine.  Their  cup  is  full,  the 
measure  of  their  iniquity  is  pressed  down  and  running 
over.  All  who  live  shall  see." 

"  Like  enough,"  said  Nell,  as  though  the  matter 
were  grown  very  tedious,  and  she  yawned  just  a  little  ; 
but,  as  she  glanced  at  me,  a  merry  light  gleamed  in 
her  eyes.  "And  what  is  to  befall  Simon  here?"  she 
asked. 

He  turned  on  me  with  a  start,  seeming  to  have  for- 
gotten my  presence. 

"This  young  man?"  he  asked,  looking  full  in  my 
face.  "  Why,  his  face  is  honest  ;  if  he  choose  his 
friends  well,  he  may  do  well." 

"  I  am  of  his  friends,"  said  Nell,  and  I  defy  any 
man  on  earth  to  have  given  the  lie  to  such  a  claim  so 
made. 

"And  for  you,  may  the  Lord  soften  your  heart," 
said  Phineas  to  her. 

"  Some  say  it's  too  soft  already,"  said  Nell. 

"  You  will  see  me  again,"  said  he  to  her,  and  moved 


I  am  Forbidden  to  Forget*  61 

towards  the  door.  But  once  more  he  faced  me  be- 
fore he  went,  and  looked  very  intently  at  me.  Then 
he  passed  out,  leaving  us  alone. 

At  his  going  Nell  sighed  for  relief,  stretched  out 
her  arms,  and  let  them  fall  on  the  table  in  front  of 
her;  then  she  sprang  up  and  ran  to  me,  catching  hold 
of  my  hands. 

"  And  how  goes  all  at  pretty  Hatchstead  ? "  she 
asked. 

I  drew  back,  releasing  my  hands  from  hers,  and  I 
spoke  to  her  stiffly. 

"  Madame,"  said  I,  "this  is  not  Hatchstead,  nor  do 
you  seem  the  lady  whom  I  knew  at  Hatchstead." 

"  Indeed  you  seem  very  like  the  gentleman  I  knew, 
and  knew  well,  there,"  she  retorted. 

"And  you,  very  unlike  the  lady." 

"  Nay,  not  so  unlike  as  you  think.  But  are  you  also 
going  to  preach  to  me  ?  " 

"  Madame,"  said  I,  in  cold  courtesy,  "  I  have  to 
thank  you  for  a  good  remembrance  of  me,  and  for 
your  kindness  in  doing  me  a  service  ;  I  assure  you  I 
prize  it  none  the  less,  because  I  may  not  accept  it." 

"You  may  not  accept  it?"  she  cried.  "What? 
You  may  not  accept  the  commission  ?  " 

"  No,  madame,"  said  I,  bowing  low.  Her  face  was 
like  a  pretty  child's  in  disappointment. 

"  And  your  arm  ?  How  come  you  to  be  wounded  ? 
Have  you  been  quarrelling  already  ?  " 

"Already,  madame." 

"  But  with  whom  and  why?  " 

"  With  my  Lord  Carford.  The  reason  I  need  not 
weary  you  with." 

"  But  I  desire  to  know  it." 

"  Because  my  lord  said  that  Mistress  Gwyn  had  ob- 
tained me  my  commission." 

"  But  it  was  true." 

"  Doubtless,  yet  I  fought." 


62  Simon  Dale. 

"  Why,  if  it  were  true  ?  " 

I  made  her  no  answer.  She  went  and  seated  her- 
self again  at  the  table,  looking  up  at  me  with  eyes  in 
which  I  seemed  to  read  pain  and  puzzle. 

"I  thought  it  would  please  you,  Simon,"  she  said, 
with  a  coaxing  glance  that  at  least  feigned  timidity. 

"  Never  have  I  been  so  proud  as  on  the  day  I  re- 
ceived it,"  said  I,  "  and  never,  I  think,  so  happy,  un> 
less,  may  be,  when  you  and  I  walked  in  the  Manor 
park." 

"  Nay,  Simon,  but  you  will  be  glad  to  have  it,  even 
though  I  obtained  it  for  you." 

"  I  shall  not  have  it.  I  go  to  Whitehall  to-morrow 
to  surrender  it." 

She  sprang  up  in  wonder,  and  anger  also  showed  in 
her  eyes. 

"  To  surrender  it?  You  mean  in  truth  to  surrender 
it  ?  And  because  it  came  from  me  ?  " 

Again  I  could  do  nothing  but  bow.  That  I  did 
with  the  best  air  I  could  muster,  although  I  had  no 
love  for  my  part  in  this  scene.  Alas  for  a  man  who, 
being  with  her,  must  spend  his  time  in  chiding! 

"  Well,  I  wish  I  hadn't  remembered  you,"  she  said, 
resentfully. 

"  Indeed,  madame,  I  also  wish  that  I  had  for- 
gotten." 

"  You  have,  or  you  would  never  use  me  so." 

"  It  is  my  memory  that  makes  me  rough,  madame. 
Indeed  how  should  I  have  forgotten  ?" 

"  You  hadn't  ?"  she  asked,  advancing  nearer  to  me. 
"  No,  in  truth  I  believe  you  hadn't !  And,  Simon, 
listen  !  "  Now  she  stood  with  her  face  but  a  yard 
from  mine,  and  again  her  lips  were  curved  with  mirth 
and  malice.  "  Listen,  Simon,"  she  said,  "  you  had 
not  forgotten  ;  and  you  shall  not  forget." 

"  It  is  very  likely,"  said  I  simply,  and  I  took  up  my 
hat  from  the  table. 


1  am  Forbidden  to  Forget.  63 

"  How  fares  Mistress  Barbara  ?  "  asked  Nell,  sud- 
denly. 

"  I  have  not  waited  on  her,"  I  answered. 

"  Then  indeed  I  am  honoured,  although  our  meeting 
was  somewhat  by  chance.  Ah,  Simon,  I  want  to  be 
so  angry  with  you.  But  how  can  I  be  angry  ?  I  can 
never  be  angry.  Why  "  (and  here  she  came  even  a 
little  closer,  and  now  she  was  smiling  most  damnably 
— nay,  I  mean  most  delightfully  ;  but  it  is  often  much 
the  same)  "  I  was  not  very  angry  even  when  you 
kissed  me,  Simon." 

It  is  not  for  me  to  say  what  answer  to  that  speech 
she  looked  to  receive.  Mine  was  no  more  than  a  repe- 
tition of  my  bow. 

"You'll  keep  the  commission,  Simon?"  she  whis- 
pered, standing  on  tiptoe,  as  though  she  would  reach 
my  ear. 

"  I  can't,"  said  I,  bowing  no  more  and  losing,  I  fear, 
the  air  of  grave  composure  that  I  had  striven  to  main- 
tain. I  saw  what  seemed  a  light  of  triumph  in  her 
eyes.  Yet  that  mood  passed  quickly  from  her.  She 
grew  pensive  and  drew  away  from  me.  I  stepped 
towards  the  door,  but  a  hand  laid  on  my  arm  arrested 
me. 

"  Simon,"  she  asked,  "  have  you  sweet  memories  of 
Hatchstead  ?  " 

"  God  forgive  me,"  said  I,  confusedly,  "  sweeter  than 
my  hopes  of  heaven." 

She  looked  at  me  gravely  for  an  instant.  Then 
sighing  she  said, — 

"  Then  I  wish  you  had  not  come  to  town,  but  stayed 
there  with  your  memories.  They  were  of  me?" 

"  Of  Cydaria." 

"  Ah,  of  Cydaria,"  she  echoed,  with  a  little  smile. 

But  a  moment  later  the  full  merriment  of  laughter 
broke  out  again  on  her  face,  and,  drawing  her  hand 
away,  she  let  me  go,  crying  after  me, — 


64  Simon  Dale* 

"  But  you  shall  not  forget,  Simon.  No,  you  shall 
not  forget." 

Then  I  left  her,  standing  in  the  doorway  of  the  inn, 
daring  me  to  forget.  And  my  brain  seemed  all  whirl- 
ing and  swirling  as  I  walked  down  the  Lane. 


CHAPTER  VL 
An  Invitation  to  Court. 

I  SPENT  the  rest  of  that  day  in  my  inn,  agreeably  to 
the  advice  of  the  surgeon,  and  the  next  morning,  rind- 
ing my  wound  healing  well  and  my  body  free  from 
fever,  I  removed  to  Mr.  Darrell's  new  lodging  by  the 
Temple,  where  he  had  most  civilly  placed  two  rooms 
at  my  disposal.  Here  also  I  provided  myself  with  a 
servant,  a  fellow  named  Jonah  Wall,  and  prepared  to 
go  to  Whitehall  as  the  King's  letter  commanded  me. 
Of  Mr.  Darrell  I  saw  nothing  ;  he  went  off  before  I 
came,  having  left  for  me  with  Robert,  his  servant,  a 
message  that  he  was  much  engaged  with  the  Secre- 
tary's business  and  prayed  to  be  excused  from  afford- 
ing me  his  company.  Yet  I  was  saved  from  making 
my  journey  alone — a  thing  that  would  have  occasioned 
me  much  trepidation — by  the  arrival  of  my  Lord  Quin- 
ton.  The  reverence  of  our  tender  years  is  hard  to 
break  down,  and  I  received  my  visitor  with  an  uneasi- 
ness which  was  not  decreased  by  the  severity  of  his 
questions  concerning  my  doings.  I  made  haste  to  tell 
him  that  I  had  determined  to  resign  the  commission 
bestowed  on  me.  These  tidings  so  transformed  his 
temper  that  he  passed  from  cold  reproof  to  an  excess 
of  cordiality,  being  pleased  to  praise  highly  a  scruple 
as  honourable  as  (he  added  with  a  shrug)  it  was  rare, 
and  he  began  to  laugh  at  himself  as  he  recounted 
humorously  how  his  wrath  against  me  had  grown 
higher  and  higher  with  each  thing  that  had  come  to 
his  ears.  Eager  now  to  make  amends,  he  offered  to 


66  Simon  Dale. 

go  with  me  to  Whitehall,  proposing  that  we  should 
ride  in  his  coach  to  the  Mall  and  walk  thence  together. 
I  accepted  his  company  most  gratefully,  since  it  would 
save  me  from  betraying  an  ignorance  of  which  I  was 
ashamed  and  strengthen  my  courage  for  the  task  be- 
fore me.  Accordingly  we  set  out  and  as  we  went  my 
lord  took  occasion  to  refer  to  my  acquaintance  with 
Mistress  Nell,  suggesting  plainly  enough,  although  not 
directly,  that  I  should  be  wise  to  abandon  her  society 
at  the  same  time  that  I  laid  down  the  commission  she 
had  obtained  for  me.  I  did  not  question  his  judg- 
ment but  avoided  giving  any  promise  to  be  guided  by 
it.  Perceiving  that  I  was  not  willing  to  be  pressed, 
he  passed  from  the  topic  with  a  sigh  and  began  to  dis- 
course of  the  state  of  the  kingdom.  Had  I  paid  more 
heed  to  what  he  said  I  might  have  avoided  certain 
troubles  into  which  I  fell  afterwards,  but,  busy  staring 
about  me,  I  gave  him  only  such  attention  as  courtesy 
required,  and  not  enough  for  a  proper  understanding 
of  his  uneasiness  at  the  dealings  of  our  Court  with  the 
French  King  and  the  visit  of  the  King's  sister,  Ma- 
dame d'Orleans,  of  which  the  town  was  full.  For  my 
lord,  although  a  most  loyal  gentleman,  hated  both  the 
French  and  the  Papists,  and  was  much  grieved  at  the 
King's  apparent  inclination  in  their  favour.  So  he 
talked,  I  nodding  and  assenting  to  all,  but  wondering 
when  he  would  bid  me  wait  on  my  lady  and  whether 
Mistress  Barbara  was  glad  that  my  Lord  Carford's 
sword  had  passed  through  my  arm  only  and  done  no 
greater  hurt. 

Thus  we  came  to  the  Mall,  and,  having  left  the 
coach,  set  out  to  walk  slowly,  my  lord  having  his  arm 
through  mine.  I  was  very  glad  to  be  seen  thus  in  his 
»company,  for,  although  not  so  great  a  man  here  as  at 
Hatchstead,  he  had  no  small  reputation  and  carried 
himself  with  a  noble  air.  When  we  had  gone  some 
little  way,  being  very  comfortable  with  one  another 


An  Invitation  to  Court*  67 

and  speaking  now  of  lighter  matters,  I  perceived  at 
some  distance  a  party  of  gentlemen,  three  in  number; 
they  were  accompanied  by  a  little  boy  very  richly 
dressed,  and  were  followed  at  a  short  interval  by  five 
or  six  more  gentlemen,  among  whom  I  recognised  im- 
mediately my  friend  Darrell.  It  seemed  then  that  the 
Secretary's  business  could  be  transacted  in  leisurely 
fashion  !  As  the  first  group  passed  along,  I  observed 
that  the  bystanders  uncovered,  but  I  had  hardly 
needed  this  sign  to  tell  me  that  the  King  was  of  the 
party.  I  was  familiar  with  his  features,  but  he  seemed 
to  me  even  a  more  swarthy  man  than  all  the  descrip- 
tions of  his  blackness  had  led  me  to  expect.  He  bore 
himself  with  a  very  easy  air  yet  was  not  wanting  in 
dignity,  and,  being  attracted  by  him,  I  fell  to  study- 
ing his  appearance  with  such  interest  that  I  came  near 
to  forgetting  to  remove  my  hat.  Presently  he  seemed 
to  observe  us;  he  smiled  and  beckoned  with  his  hand 
to  my  lord,  who  went  forward  alone,  leaving  me  still 
watching  the  King  and  his  companions. 

I  had  little  difficulty  in  recognising  the  name  of 
one  ;  the  fine  figure,  haughty  manner  and  magnificent 
attire  showed  him  to  be  the  famous  Duke  of  Bucking- 
ham, whose,  pride  lay  in  seeming  more  of  a  king 
than  the  King  himself ;  while  my  lord  spoke  with  the 
King,  this  nobleman  jested  with  the  little  boy,  who 
answered  with  readiness  and  vivacity.  As  to  the  last 
member  of  the  group  (whom  the  Duke  seemed  to  treat 
with  some  neglect),  I  was  at  a  loss.  His  features  were 
not  distinguished,  except  by  a  perfect  composure  and 
self-possession,  but  his  bearing  was  very  courtly  and 
graceful.  He  wore  a  slight,  pleasant,  yet  rather  rigid 
smile,  and  his  attitude  was  as  though  he  listened  to 
what  his  master  said  with  even  excessive  deference 
and  urbanity.  His  face  was  marked,  and  to  my  think- 
ing much  disfigured,  by  a  patch  or  plaster  worn  across 
the  nose,  as  though  to  hide  some  wound  or  scar. 


68  Simon  Dale* 

After  a  few  minutes,  during  which  I  waited  very 
uneasily,  my  lord  turned  and  signed  to  me  to  ap- 
proach. I  obeyed,  hat  in  hand,  and  in  a  condition  of 
great  apprehension.  To  be  presented  to  the  King  was 
an  honour  disquieting  enough ;  what  if  my  lord  had 
told  his  Majesty  that  I  declined  to  bear  his  commis- 
sion through  a  disapproval  of  his  reasons  for  granting 
me  the  favour?  But  when  I  came  near  I  fell  into  the 
liveliest  fear  that  my  lord  had  done  this  very  thing; 
for  the  King  was  smiling  contemptuously,  Buckingham 
laughing  openly,  and  the  gentleman  with  the  plaster 
regarding  me  with  a  great  and  very  apparent  curiosity. 
My  lord,  meanwhile,  wore  a  propitiatory  but  doubtful 
air,  as  though  he  prayed  but  hardly  hoped  a  gracious 
reception  for  me.  Thus  we  all  stood  a  moment  in 
complete  silence,  I  invoking  an  earthquake  or  any 
convulsion  of  nature  that  should  rescue  me  from  my 
embarrassment.  Certainly  the  King  did  not  hasten 
to  do  me  this  kindly  service.  He  grew  grave  and 
seemed  displeased  ;  nay,  he  frowned  most  distinctly, 
but  then  he  smiled,  yet  more  as  though  he  must  than 
because  he  would.  I  do  not  know  how  the  thing 
would  have  ended,  if  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  had 
not  burst  out  a-laughing  again,  at  which  the  King 
could  not  restrain  himself  but  began  to  laugh  also, 
although  still  not  as  though  he  found  the  jest  alto- 
gether to  his  liking. 

"So,  sir,"  said  the  King  composing  his  features  as 
he  addressed  me,  "you  are  not  desirous  of  bearing  my 
commission  and  fighting  my  enemies  for  me?  " 

"  I  would  fight  for  your  Majesty  to  the  death,"  said 
I,  timidly  but  with  fervour. 

"  Yet  you  are  on  the  way  to  ask  leave  to  resign 
your  commission.  Why,  sir?" 

I  could  not  answer ;  it  was  impossible  to  state  my 
reason  to  him. 

"  The  utility  of  a  woman's  help,"  observed  the  King, 


An  Invitation  to  Court.  69 

"  was  apparent  very  early  in  the  world's  history. 
Even  Adam  was  glad  of  it." 

"She  was  his  wife,  Sir,"  interposed  the  Duke. 

"  I  have  never  read  of  the  ceremony,"  said  the  King. 
"  But  if  she  were,  what  difference  ?  " 

"  Why,  it  makes  a  great  deal  of  difference  in  many 
ways,  Sir,"  laughed  Buckingham,  and  he  glanced  with 
a  significance  which  I  did  not  understand  at  the  boy 
who  was  waiting  near  with  a  weary  look  on  his  pretty 
face. 

The  King  laughed  carelessly  and  called,  "  Charles, 
come  hither." 

Then  I  knew  that  the  boy  must  be  the  King's  son, 
afterwards  known  as  Earl  of  Plymouth,  and  found  the 
meaning  of  the  Duke's  glance. 

"  Charles,  what  think  you  of  women  ?  "  the  King 
asked. 

The  pretty  child  thought  for  a  moment,  then  an- 
swered, looking  up, — 

"  They  are  very  tiresome  creatures,  Sir." 

"  Why,  so  they  are,  Charles,"  said  the  King,  gravely. 

"  They  will  never  let  a  thing  alone,  Sir." 

"  No,  they  won't,  Charles,  nor  a  man  either." 

"  It's  first  this,  Sir,  then  that — a  string,  or  a  garter, 
or  a  bow." 

"  Yes,  Charles  ;  or  a  title,  or  a  purse,  or  a  commis- 
sion," said  the  King.  "  Shall  we  have  no  more  to  do 
with  them  ?" 

"  I  would  desire  no  more  at  all,  Sir,"  cried  the  boy. 

"  It  appears,  Mr.  Dale,"  said  the  King,  turning  to 
me,  "  that  Charles  here,  and  you,  and  I  are  all  of  one 
mind  on  the  matter  of  women.  Had  Heaven  been  on 
our  side,  there  would  have  been  none  of  them  in  the 
world." 

He  seemed  to  be  examining  me  now  with  some  de- 
gree of  attention,  although  I  made,  as  I  fear,  a  very 
poor  figure.  Lord  Quinton  came  to  my  rescue  and 


70  Simon  Dale. 

began  to  enlarge  on  my  devotion  to  his  Majesty's  per- 
son and  my  eagerness  to  serve  him  in  any  way  I 
might,  apart  from  the  scruple  which  he  had  ventured 
to  disclose  to  the  King. 

"  Mr.  Dale  says  none  of  these  fine  things  for  him- 
self," remarked  the  King. 

"  It  is  not  always  those  that  say  most  who  do  most, 
Sir,"  pleaded  my  lord. 

"  Therefore  this  young  gentleman  who  says  nothing 
will  do  everything?"  The  King  turned  to  his  com- 
panion who  wore  the  plaster  and  had  as  yet  not 
spoken  at  all.  "  My  Lord  Arlington,"  said  he,  "  it 
seems  that  I  must  release  Mr.  Dale." 

"  I  think  so,  Sir,"  answered  Arlington,  on  whom  I 
looked  with  much  curiosity,  since  he  was  Darrell's 
patron. 

"  I  cannot  have  servants  who  do  not  love  me,"  pur- 
sued the  King. 

"  Nor  subjects,"  added  Buckingham,  with"  a  mali- 
cious smile. 

"  Although  I  am  not,  unhappily,  so  free  in  the  choice 
of  my  Ministers,"  said  the  King.  Then  he  faced 
round  on  me  and  addressed  me  in  a  cold  tone. 

"  I  am  reluctant,  sir,  to  set  down  your  conduct  to 
any  want  of  affection  or  loyalty  towards  me.  I  shall 
be  glad  if  you  can  show  me  that  my  forbearance  is 
right."  With  this  he  bent  his  head  slightly,  and 
moved  on.  I  bowed  very  low,  shame  and  confusion 
so  choking  me  that  I  had  not  a  word  to  say.  Indeed 
I  seemed  damned  beyond  redemption,  so  far  as  my 
fortunes  depended  on  obtaining  the  King's  favour. 

Again  I  was  left  by  myself,  for  the  King,  anxious, 
as  I  took  it,  to  show  that  his  displeasure  extended  to 
me  only,  had  stopped  again  to  speak  with  my  lord. 
But  in  a  moment,  to  my  surprise,  Arlington  was  at  my 
side. 

"  Come,  sir,"  said  he,  very  genially,  "  there's  no  need 


An  Invitation  to  Court*  7 1 

of  despair.  The  King  is  a  little  vexed,  but  his  resent- 
ment is  not  obstinate  and  let  me  tell  you  that  he  has 
been  very  anxious  to  see  you." 

"The  King  anxious  to  see  me?  "  I  cried. 

"  Why,  yes.  He  has  heard  much  of  you."  His  lips 
twitched  as  he  glanced  at  me.  I  had  the  discretion  to 
ask  no  further  explanation,  and  in  a  moment  he  grew 
grave  again,  continuing,  "  I  also  am  glad  to  meet  with 
you,  for  my  good  friend  Darrell  has  sounded  your 
praises  to  me.  Sir,  there  are  many  ways  of  serving 
the  King." 

"  I  should  rejoice  with  all  my  heart  to  find  one  of 
them,  my  lord,"  I  answered. 

"  I  may  find  you  one,  if  you  are  willing  to  take 
it." 

"  I  should  be  your  lordship's  most  humble  and 
grateful  servant." 

"  Tut,  if  I  gave,  I  should  ask  in  return,"  said  he,  and 
he  added  suddenly,  "You're  a  good  Churchman,  I  sup- 
pose, Mr.  Dale?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  my  lord,  I  and  all  my  family. 

"  Good,  good.  In  these  days  our  Church  has  many 
enemies.  It  is  threatened  on  more  than  one  side." 

I  contented  myself  with  bowing ;  when  the  Secre- 
tary spoke  to  me  on  such  high  matters,  it  was  for  me 
to  listen  and  not  to  bandy  opinions  with  him. 

"  Yes,  we  are  much  threatened,"  said  he.  "  Well, 
Mr.  Dale,  I  shall  trust  that  we  may  have  other  meet- 
ings. You  are  to  be  found  at  Mr.  Darrell's  lodging? 
You  may  look  to  hear  from  me,  sir."  He  moved 
away,  cutting  short  my  thanks  with  a  polite  wave  of 
his  hand. 

Suddenly  to  my  amazement  the  King  turned  round 
and  called  to  me, — 

"  Mr.  Dale,  there  is  a  play  to  be  acted  at  my  house 
to-morrow  evening.  Pray  give  me  the  pleasure  of 
your  company." 


72  Simon  Dale* 

I  bowed  almost  to  the  ground,  scarcely  able  to  be- 
lieve my  ears. 

"  And  we'll  try,"  said  the  King,  raising  his  voice  so 
that  not  only  we  who  were  close  to  him  but  the  gen- 
tlemen behind  also  must  hear,  "  to  find  an  ugly  woman 
and  an  honest  man,  between  whom  we  may  place  you. 
The  first  should  not  be  difficult  to  come  on,  but  the 
second  I  fear  is  well-nigh  impossible  unless  another 
stranger  should  come  to  Court.  Good-day  to  you, 
Mr.  Dale."  And  away  he  went,  smiling  very  happily 
and  holding  the  boy's  hand  in  his. 

The  King's  immediate  party  was  no  sooner  gone 
than  Darrell  ran  up  to  me  eagerly  and  before  my  lord 
could  rejoin  me,  crying, — 

"  What  did  he  say  to  you  ?  " 

"  The  King  ?     Why,  he  said " 

"No,  no.  What  did  my  lord  say?"  He  pointed 
to  Arlington,  who  was  walking  off  with  the  King. 

"  He  asked  whether  I  were  a  good  Churchman,  and 
told  me  that  I  should  hear  from  him.  But  if  he  is  so 
solicitous  about  the  Church,  how  does  he  endure  your 
religion  ?  " 

Darrell  had  no  time  to  answer,  for  Lord  Quinton's 
grave  voice  struck  in. 

"  He  is  a  wise  man  who  can  answer  a  question 
touching  my  Lord  Arlington's  opinion  of  the  Church," 
said  he. 

Darrell  flushed  red,  and  turned  angrily  on  the  inter- 
rupter. 

"You  have  no  cause,  my  lord,"  he  cried,  "to  attack 
the  Secretary's  churchmanship." 

"  Then  you  have  no  cause,  sir,"  retorted  Quinton, 
"  to  defend  it  with  so  much  temper.  Come,  let  me 
be.  I  have  said  as  much  to  the  Secretary's  face,  and 
he  bore  it  with  more  patience  than  you  can  muster  on 
his  behalf." 

By  this  time  I  was  in  some  distress  to  see  my  old 


An  Invitation  to  Court.  73 

friend  and  my  new  at  such  variance,  and  the  more  as 
I  could  not  understand  the  ground  of  their  difference; 
the  Secretary's  suspected  leaning  towards  the  Popish 
religion  had  not  reached  our  ears  in  the  country. 
But  Darrell,  as  though  he  did  not  wish  to  dispute 
further  with  a  man  his  superior  in  rank  and  age,  drew 
off  with  a  bow  to  my  lord  and  a  kindly  nod  to  me, 
and  rejoined  the  other  gentlemen  in  attendance  on 
the  King  and  his  party. 

"You  came  off  well  with  the  King,  Simon,"  said 
my  lord,  taking  my  arm  again.  "You  made  him 
laugh,  and  he  counts  no  man  his  enemy  who  will  do 
him  that  service.  But  what  did  Arlington  say  to 
you?" 

When  I  repeated  the  Secretary's  words,  he  grew 
grave,  but  he  patted  my  arm  in  a  friendly  fashion, 
saying, — 

"You've  shown  wisdom  and  honour  in  this  first 
matter,  lad.  I  must  trust  you  in  others.  Yet  there 
are  many  who  have  no  faith  in  my  Lord  Arlington,  as 
Englishman  or  Churchman  either." 

"  But,"  cried  I,  "  does  not  Lord  Arlington  do  as  the 
King  bids  him  ?  " 

My  lord  looked  full  in  my  face,  and  answered 
steadily, — 

"  I  think  he  does,  Simon."  But  then,  as  though  he 
had  said  enough,  or  even  too  much,  he  went  on : 
"  Come,  you  needn't  grow  too  old  or  too  prudent  all 
at  once.  Since  you  have  seen  the  King,  your  business 
at  Whitehall  will  wait.  Let  us  turn  back  to  the  coach 
and  be  driven  to  my  house,  for,  besides  my  lady,  Bar- 
bara is  there  to-day  on  leave  from  her  attendance,  and 
she  will  be  glad  to  renew  her  acquaintance  with  you." 

It  was  my  experience  as  a  young  man,  and,  per- 
chance, other  young  men  may  have  found  the  like, 
that  whatsoever  apprehensions  or  embarrassments 
might  be  entailed  by  meeting  a  comely  damsel,  and 


74  Simon  Dale 

however  greatly  her  displeasure  and  scorn  were  to  be 
dreaded,  yet  the  meeting  was  not  forgone,  all  perils 
being  taken  rather  than  that  certain  calamity.  There- 
fore I  went  with  my  lord  to  his  handsome  house  in 
Southampton  square,  and  found  myself  kissing  my 
lady's  hand  before  I  was  resolved  on  how  I  should 
treat  Mistress  Barbara,  or  on  the  more  weighty  ques- 
tion of  how  I  might  look  to  be  treated  by  her. 

I  had  not  to  wait  long  for  the  test.  After  a  few 
moments  of  my  lady's  amiable  and  kindly  conversa- 
tion, Barbara  entered  from  the  room  behind,  and  with 
her  Lord  Carford.  He  wore  a  disturbed  air  which  his 
affected  composure  could  not  wholly  conceal ;  her 
cheek  was  flushed  and  she  seemed  vexed  :  but  I  did 
not  notice  these  things  so  much  as  the  change  which 
had  been  wrought  in  her  by  the  last  four  years.  She 
had  become  a  very  beautiful  woman,  ornamented  with 
a  high-bred  grace  and  exquisite  haughtiness,  tall  and 
slim,  carrying  herself  with  a  delicate  dignity.  She 
gave  me  her  hand  to  kiss,  carelessly  enough  and  rather 
as  though  she  acknowledged  an  old  acquaintance  than 
found  any  pleasure  in  its  renewal.  But  she  was  gentle 
to  me  and  I  detected  in  her  mannera  subtle  indication 
that,  although  she  knew  all,  yet  she  pitied  rather  than 
blamed  ;  was  not  Simon  very  young  and  ignorant,  and 
did  not  all  the  world  know  how  easily  even  honest 
young  men  might  be  beguiled  by  cunning  women? 
An  old  friend  must  not  turn  her  back  on  account  of  a 
folly,  distasteful  as  it  might  be  to  her  to  be  reminded 
of  such  matters. 

My  lord,  I  think,  read  his  daughter  very  well,  and, 
being  determined  to  afford  me  an  opportunity  to 
make  my  peace,  engaged  Lord  Carford  in  conversation, 
and  bade  her  lead  me  into  the  room  behind,  to  see  the 
picture  that  Lely  had  lately  painted  of  her.  She 
obeyed,  and,  having  brought  me  to  where  it  hung, 
listened  patiently  to  my  remarks  on  it,  which  I  tried 


An  Invitation  to  Court.  »7S 

to  shape  into  compliments  that  should  be  pleasing 
and  yet  not  gross.  Then,  taking  courage,  I  ventured 
to  assure  her  that  I  fell  out  with  Lord  Carford  in 
sheer  ignorance  that  he  was  a  friend  of  her  family  and 
would  have  borne  anything  at  his  hands  had  I  known 
it.  She  smiled,  answering, — 

"  But  you  did  him  no  harm,"  and  she  glanced  at 
my  arm  in  its  sling.  She  had  not  troubled  herself  to 
ask  how  it  did,  and  I,  a  little  nettled  at  her  neglect, 
said, — 

"  Nay,  all  ended  well.  I  alone  was  hurt,  and  the 
great  lord  came  off  safe." 

"  Since  the  great  lord  was  in  the  right,"  said  she, 
"  we  should  all  rejoice  at  that.  Are  you  satisfied  with 
your  examination  of  the  picture,  Mr.  Dale?  " 

I  was  not  to  be  turned  aside  so  easily. 

"  If  you  hold  me  to  have  been  wrong,  then  I  have 
done  what  I  could  to  put  myself  in  the  right  since," 
said  I,  not  doubting  that  she  knew  of  my  surrender  of 
the  commission. 

"  I  don't  understand,"  said  she,  with  a  quick  glance. 
"What  have  you  done?" 

In  wonder  that  she  had  not  been  informed  I  cried, — 

"  I  have  obtained  the  King's  leave  to  decline  his 
favour." 

The  colour  which  had  been  on  her  cheeks  when  she 
first  entered  had  gone  before  now,  but  at  my  words  it 
returned  a  little. 

"  Didn't  my  lord  tell  you  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  haven't  seen  him  alone  this  week  past,"  she  an- 
swered. 

But  she  had  seen  Carford  alone,  and  that  in  the 
last  hour  past.  It  was  strange  that  he,  who  had 
known  my  intention  and  commended  it  so  highly, 
should  not  have  touched  on  it.  I  looked  in  her  eyes; 
I  think  she  followed  my  thoughts,  for  she  glanced 
aside,  and  said  in  visible  embarrassment, — 


76  Simon  Dale* 

"Shall  we  return?" 

"You  haven't  spoken  on  the  matter  with  my  Lord 
Carford  then  ?  "  I  asked. 

She  hesitated  a  moment,  then  answered  as  though 
she  did  not  love  the  truth  but  must  tell  it. 

"  Yes  ;  but  he  said  nothing  of  this.     Tell  me  of  it." 

So  I  told  her  in  simple  and  few  words  what  I  had 
done. 

"  Lord  Carford  said  nothing  of  it,"  she  said,  when  I 
ended.  Then  she  added,  "  But  although  you  will  not 
accept  the  favour,  you  have  rendered  thanks  for  it?" 

"  I  couldn't  find  my  tongue  when  I  was  with  the 
King,"  I  answered,  with  a  shamefaced  laugh. 

"I  didn't  mean  to  the  King,"  said  Barbara. 

It  was  my  turn  to  colour  now ;  I  had  not  been  long 
enough  at  town  to  lose  the  trick. 

"I  have  seen  her,"  I  murmured. 

Then  Barbara  suddenly  made  me  a  curtsey,  saying 
bitterly, — 

"  I  wish  you  joy,  sir,  of  your  acquaintance." 

When  a  man  is  alone  with  a  beautiful  lady,  he  is 
apt  not  to  love  an  intruder ;  yet  on  my  soul  I  was 
glad  to  see  Carford  in  the  doorway.  He  came  to- 
wards us,  but  before  he  could  speak  Barbara  cried  to 
him, — 

"  My  lord,  Mr.  Dale  tells  me  news  that  will  interest 
you." 

"  Indeed,  madame,  and  what?  " 

"  Why,  that  he  has  begged  the  King's  leave  to  re- 
sign his  commission.  Doesn't  it  surprise  you?  " 

He  looked  at  her,  at  me,  and  again  at  her.  He  was 
caught,  for  I  knew  that  he  had  been  fully  acquainted 
with  my  purpose.  He  gathered  himself  together  to 
answer  her. 

"  Nay,  I  knew,"  he  said,  "  and  had  ventured  to  ap- 
plaud Mr.  Dale's  resolution.  But  it  did  not  come  into 
my  mind  to  speak  of  it." 


An  Invitation  to  Court,  77 

"  Strange,"  said  she,  "  when  we  were  deploring  that 
Mr.  Dale  should  obtain  his  commission  by  such 
means." 

She  rested  her  eyes  on  him  steadily,  while  her  lips 
were  set  in  a  scornful  smile.  A  pause  followed  her 
words. 

"  I  daresay  I  should  have  mentioned  it,  had  we 
not  passed  to  another  topic,"  said  he  at  last  and  sul- 
lenly enough.  Then,  attempting  a  change  in  tone,  he 
added,  "  Won't  you  rejoin  us?  " 

"  I  am  very  well  here,"  she  said. 

He  waited  a  moment,  then  bowed,  and  left  us.  He 
was  frowning  heavily,  and,  as  I  judged,  would  have 
greeted  another  quarrel  with  me  very  gladly,  had  I 
been  minded  to  give  him  an  opportunity  ;  but  think- 
ing it  fair  that  I  should  be  cured  fram  the  first  en- 
counter before  I  faced  a  second,  I  held  my  peace  till 
he  was  gone  ;  then  I  said  to  Barbara, — 

"  I  wonder  he  didn't  tell  you." 

Alas  for  my  presumption !  The  anger  that  had 
been  diverted  on  to  Carford's  head  swept  back  to 
mine. 

"Indeed,  why  should  he?"  she  cried.  "All  the 
world  can't  be  always  thinking  of  you  and  your  af- 
fairs, Mr.  Dale." 

"  Yet  you  were  vexed  because  he  hadn't." 

"  I  vexed  !     Not  I !  "  said  Barbara,  haughtily. 

I  could  not  make  that  out ;  she  had  seemed  angry 
with  him.  But  because  I  spoke  of  her  anger,  she  was 
angry  now  with  me.  Indeed  I  began  to  think  that 
little  Charles,  the  King,  and  I  had  been  right  in  that 
opinion  in  which  the  King  found  us  so  much  of  a 
mind.  Suddenly  Barbara  spoke, — 

"  Tell  me  what  she  is  like,  this  friend  of  yours,"  she 
said.  "  I  have  never  seen  her." 

It  leapt  to  my  lips  to  cry,  "  Aye,  you  have  seen 
her !  "  but  I  did  not  give  utterance  to  the  words. 


7  8  Simon  Dale* 

Barbara  had  seen  her  in  the  park  at  Hatchstead,  seen 
her  more  than  once,  and  more  than  once  found  sore 
offence  in  what  she  saw.  There  is  wisdom  in  silence ; 
I  was  learning  that  safety  might  lie  in  deceit.  The 
anger  under  which  I  had  suffered  would  be  doubled 
if  she  knew  that  Cydaria  was  Nell  and  Nell  Cydaria. 
Why  should  she  know  ?  Why  should  my  own  mouth 
betray  me  and  add  my  bygone  sins  to  the  offences  of 
to-day  ?  My  lord  had  not  told  her  that  Nell  was 
Cydaria.  Should  I  speak  where  my  lord  was  silent? 
Neither  would  I  tell  her  of  Cydaria. 

"You  haven't  seen  her?"  I  asked. 

"  No  ;  and  I  would  learn  what  she  is  like." 

It  was  a  strange  thing  to  command  me,  yet  Bar- 
bara's desire  joined  with  my  own  thoughts  to  urge  me 
to  it.  I  began  tamely  enough,  with  a  stiff  list  of  fea- 
tures and  catalogue  of  colours.  Yet  as  I  talked  recol- 
lection warmed  my  voice  ;  and  when  Barbara's  lips 
curled  scornfully,  as  though  she  would  say,  "  What  is 
there  in  this  to  make  men  fools?  There  is  nothing  in 
all  this,"  I  grew  more  vehement  and  painted  the  pic- 
ture with  all  my  skill.  What  malice  began,  my  ar- 
dour perfected,  until,  engrossed  in  my  fancy,  I  came 
near  to  forgetting  that  I  had  a  listener,  and  ended 
with  a  start  as  I  found  Barbara's  eyes  fixed  on  mine, 
while  she  stood  motionless  before  me.  My  exaltation 
vanished,  and  confusion  drove  away  my  passion. 

"You  bade  me  describe  her,"  said  I,  lamely.  "  I  do 
not  know  whether  others  see  as  I  do,  but  such  is  she 
to  my  eyes." 

A  silence  followed.  Barbara's  face  was  not  flushed 
now,  but  rather  seemed  paler  than  it  was  wont  to  be. 
I  could  not  tell  how  it  was,  but  I  knew  that  I  had 
wounded  her.  Is  not  beauty  jealous,  and  who  but  a 
clod  will  lavish  praise  on  one  fair  face  while  another  is 
before  him  ?  I  should  have  done  better  to  play  the 
hypocrite  and  swear  that  my  folly,  not  Nell's  features, 


An  Invitation  to  Court.  79 

was  to  blame.  But  now  I  was  stubborn  and  would 
recall  not  a  word  of  all  my  raptures.  Yet  I  was  glad 
that  I  had  not  told  her  who  Cydaria  was. 

The  silence  was  short.  In  an  instant  Barbara  gave 
a  little  laugh,  saying, — 

"Small  wonder  you  were  caught,  poor  Simon! 
Yes,  the  creature  must  be  handsome  enough.  Shall 
we  return  to  my  mother?  " 

On  that  day  she  spoke  no  more  with  me. 


CHAPTER  VIL 
What  came  of  Honesty. 

I  SHOULD  sin  against  the  truth  and  thereby  rob  this 
my  story  of  its  solitary  virtue  were  I  to  pretend  that 
my  troubles  and  perplexities,  severe  as  they  seemed, 
outweighed  the  pleasure  and  new  excitement  of  my 
life.  Ambition  was  in  my  head,  youth  in  my  veins, 
my  eyes  looked  out  on  a  gay  world  with  a  regard  none 
too  austere.  Against  these  things  even  love's  might 
can  wage  but  an  equal  battle.  For  the  moment,  I 
must  confess,  my  going  to  Court,  with  the  prospect  it 
opened  and  the  chances  it  held,  dominated  my  mind, 
and  Jonah  Wall,  my  servant,  was  kept  busy  in  prepar- 
ing me  for  the  great  event.  I  had  made  a  discovery 
concerning  this  fellow  which  afforded  me  much  amuse- 
ment; coming  on  him  suddenly,  I  found  him  deeply 
engaged  on  a  Puritan  Psalm-book,  sighing  and  casting 
up  his  eyes  to  heaven  in  a  ludicrous  excess  of  glum- 
faced  piety.  I  pressed  him  hard  and  merrily,  when  it 
appeared  that  he  was  as  thorough  a  Ranter  as  my 
friend  Phineas  himself,  and  held  the  Court  and  all  in 
it  to  be  utterly  given  over  to  Satan,  an  opinion  not 
without  some  warrant,  had  he  observed  any  modera- 
tion in  advancing  it.  Not  wishing  to  harm  him,  I  kept 
my  knowledge  to  myself,  but  found  a  malicious  sport 
in  setting  him  to  supply  me  with  all  the  varieties  of 
raiment,  perfumes,  and  other  gauds — that  last  was  his 
word  not  mine — which  he  abhorred,  but  which  Mr. 
Simon  Dale's  newborn  desire  for  fashion  made  imper- 


What  came  of  Honesty.  81 

ative,  however  little  Mr.  Simon  Dale's  purse  could 
properly  afford  the  expense  of  them.  The  truth  is 
that  Mistress  Barbara's  behaviour  spurred  me  on.  I 
had  no  mind  to  be  set  down  a  rustic :  I  could  stomach 
disapproval  and  endure  severity;  pitied  for  a  mis- 
guided befooled  clod  I  would  not  be  ;  and  the  best 
way  to  avoid  such  a  fate  seemed  to  lie  in  showing  my- 
self as  reckless  a  gallant  and  as  fine  a  roisterer  as  any  at 
Whitehall.  So  I  dipped  freely  and  deep  into  my 
purse,  till  Jonah  groaned  as  woefully  for  my  extrava- 
gance as  for  my  frivolity.  All  day  he  was  in  great 
fear  lest  I  should  take  him  with  me  to  Court  to  the 
extreme  peril  of  his  soul ;  but  prudence  at  last  stepped 
in  and  bade  me  spare  myself  the  cost  of  a  rich  livery 
by  leaving  him  behind. 

Now  Heaven  forbid  that  I  should  imitate  my  ser- 
vant's sour  folly  (for,  if  a  man  must  be  a  fool,  I  would 
have  him  a  cheerful  fool),  or  find  anything  to  blame 
in  the  pomp  and  seemly  splendour  of  a  Royal  Court; 
yet  the  profusion  that  met  my  eyes  amazed  me.  It 
was  the  King's  whim  that  on  this  night  himself,  his 
friends  and  principal  gentlemen  should,  for  no  reason 
whatsoever  except  the  quicker  disbursing  of  their 
money,  assume  Persian  attire,  and  they  were  one  and 
all  decked  out  in  richest  Oriental  garments,  in  many 
cases  lavishly  embroidered  with  precious  stones.  The 
Duke  of  Buckingham  seemed  all  ablaze,  and  the  other 
courtiers  and  wits  were  little  less  magnificent,  foremost 
among  them  being  the  young  Duke  of  Monmouth, 
whom  I  now  saw  for  the  first  time  and  thought  as 
handsome  a  youth  as  I  had  set  eyes  on.  The  ladies 
did  not  enjoy  the  licence  offered  by  this  new  fashion, 
but  they  contrived  to  hold  their  own  in  the  French 
mode;  and  I,  who  had  heard  much  of  the  poverty  of 
the  nation,  the  necessities  of  the  fleet,  and  the  straits 
in  which  the  King  found  himself  for  money,  was  left 
gaping  in  sheer  wonder  whence  came  all  the  wealth 


82  Simon  Dale. 

that  was  displayed  before  my  eyes.  My  own  poor 
preparations  lost  all  their  charm,  and  I  had  not  been 
above  half  an  hour  in  the  place  before  I  was  seeking  a 
quiet  corner  in  which  to  hide  the  poverty  of  my  coat 
and  the  plainness  of  my  cloak.  But  the  desire  for 
privacy  thus  bred  in  me  was  not  to  find  satisfaction. 
Darrell,  whom  I  had  not  met  all  day,  now  pounced  on 
me,  and  carried  me  off,  declaring  that  he  was  charged 
to  present  me  to  the  Duke  of  York.  Trembling  be- 
tween fear  and  exultation,  I  walked  with  him  across 
the  floor,  threading  my  way  through  the  dazzling 
throng  that  covered  the  space  in  front  of  his  Maj- 
esty's dais.  But  before  we  came  to  the  Duke,  a 
gentleman  caught  my  companion  by  the  arm  and 
asked  him  how  he  did  in  a  hearty,  cheerful,  and  rather 
loud  voice.  Darrell's  answer  was  to  pull  me  forward 
and  present  me,  saying  that  Sir  Thomas  Clifford  de- 
sired my  acquaintance,  and  adding  much  that  erred 
through  kindness  of  my  parts  and  disposition. 

"Nay,  if  he's  your  friend,  it's  enough  for  me, 
Darrell,"  answered  Clifford,  and  putting  his  mouth  to 
Darrell's  ear  he  whispered.  Darrell  shook  his  head, 
and  I  thought  that  the  Treasurer  seemed  disappointed. 
However,  he  bade  me  farewell  with  cordiality. 

"What  did  he  ask  you?"  said  I,  when  we  started 
on  our  way  again. 

"  Only  whether  you  shared  my  superstition," 
answered  Darrell,  with  a  laugh. 

"They're  all  mighty  anxious  about  my  religion," 
thought  I.  "  It  would  do  no  harm  if  they  bestowed 
more  attention  on  their  own." 

Suddenly  turning  a  corner,  we  came  on  a  group  in  a 
recess  hung  on  three  sides  with  curtains  and  furnished 
with  low  couches  in  the  manner  of  an  Oriental  divan. 
The  Duke  of  York,  who  seemed  to  me  a  handsome 
courtly  Prince,  was  sitting,  and  by  him  Lord  Arlington. 
Opposite  to  them  stood  a  gentleman  to  whom  the 


What  came  of  Honesty.  83 

Duke,  when  I  had  made  my  bow,  presented  me,  bid- 
ding me  know  Mr.  Hudleston,  the  Queen's  Chaplain. 
I  was  familiar  with  his  name,  having  often  heard  of 
the  Romish  priest  who  befriended  the  King  in  his 
flight  from  Worcester ;  I  was  examining  his  features 
with  the  interest  that  an  unknown  face  belonging  to  a 
well-known  name  has  for  us,  when  the  Duke  addressed 
me  with  a  suave  and  lofty  graciousness,  his  manner 
being  in  a  marked  degree  more  ceremonious  than  the 
King's. 

"  My  Lord  Arlington,"  said  he,  "  has  commended 
you,  sir,  as  a  young  gentleman  of  most  loyal  senti- 
ments. My  brother  and  we  who  love  him  have  great 
need  of  the  services  of  all  such." 

I  stammered  out  an  assurance  of  devotion.  Arling- 
ton rose  and  took  me  by  the  arm,  whispering  that  I 
had  no  need  to  be  embarrassed.  But  Mr.  Hudleston 
turned  a  keen  and  searching  glance  on  me,  as  though 
he  would  read  my  thoughts. 

"  I'm  sure,"  said  Arlington,  "  that  Mr.  Dale  is  most 
solicitous  to  serve  his  Majesty  in  all  things." 

I  bowed,  saying  to  the  Duke, — 

"  Indeed  I  am,  sir ;  I  ask  nothing  but  an  oppor- 
tunity." 

"  In  all  things?"  asked  Hudleston,  abruptly.  "In 
all  things,  sir?  "  He  fixed  his  keen  eyes  on  my  face. 

Arlington  pressed  my  arm  and  smiled  pleasantly  ; 
he  knew  that  kindness  binds  more  sheaves  than 
severity. 

"  Come,  Mr.  Dale  says  in  all  things,"  he  observed. 
"  Do  we  need  more,  sir?  " 

But  the  Duke  was  rather  of  the  priest's  temper  than 
of  the  minister's. 

"  Why,  my  lord,"  he  answered,  "  I  have  never 
known  Mr.  Hudleston  ask  a  question  without  a  reason 
for  it." 

"  By  serving  the  King  in  all  things  some  mean  in 


8  4  Simon  Dale* 

all  things  in  which  they  may  be  pleased  to  serve  the 
King,"  said  Hudleston,  gravely.  "  Is  Mr.  Dale  one  of 
these?  Is  it  the  King's  pleasure  or  his  own  that  sets 
the  limit  to  his  duty  and  his  services?  " 

They  were  all  looking  at  me  now,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  we  had  passed  from  courtly  phrases,  such  as 
fall  readily  but  with  little  import  from  a  man's  lips, 
and  had  come  to  a  graver  matter.  They  were  asking 
some  pledge  of  me,  or  their  looks  belied  them.  Why 
or  to  what  end  they  desired  it  I  could  not  tell ;  but 
Darrell,  who  stood  behind  the  priest,  nodded  his  head 
to  me  with  an  anxious  frown. 

"  I  would  obey  the  King  in  all  things,"  I  began. 

"Well  said,  well  said,"  murmured  Arlington. 

"  Saving,"  I  proceeded,  thinking  it  my  duty  to 
make  this  addition,  and  not  conceiving  that  there 
could  be  harm  in  it,  "  the  liberties  of  the  Kingdom 
and  the  safety  of  the  Reformed  Religion." 

I  felt  Arlington's  hand  drawn  half  away,  but  in  an 
instant  it  was  back,  and  he  smiled  no  less  pleasantly 
than  before.  But  the  Duke,  less  able  or  less  careful  to 
conceal  his  mood,  frowned  heavily,  while  Hudleston 
cried  impatiently, — 

"  Reservations  !  Kings  are  not  served  with  reserva- 
tions, sir." 

He  made  me  angry.  Had  the  Duke  said  what  he 
did,  I  would  have  taken  it  with  a  dutiful  bow  and  a 
silent  tongue.  But  who  was  this  priest  to  rate  me  in 
such  a  style?  My  temper  banished  prudence,  and, 
bending  my  head  towards  him,  I  answered, — 

"  Yet  the  Crown  itself  is  worn  with  these  reserva- 
tions, sir,  and  the  King  himself  allows  them." 

For  a  moment  nobody  spoke.  Then  Arlington 
said, — 

"  I  fear,  sir,  Mr.  Dale  is  as  yet  less  a  courtier  than 
an  honest  gentleman." 

The  Duke  rose  to  his  feet. 


What  came  of  Honesty.  85 

"  I  have  found  no  fault  with  Mr.  Dale,"  said  he 
haughtily  and  coldly,  and,  taking  no  more  heed  of  me, 
he  walked  away,  while  Hudleston,  having  bestowed  on 
me  an  angry  glance,  followed  him. 

"  Mr.  Dale,  Mr.  Dale  ! "  whispered  Arlington,  and 
with  no  more  than  that,  although  still  with  a  smile, 
he  slipped  his  arm  out  of  mine  and  left  me,  beckoning 
Darrell  to  go  with  him.  Darrell  obeyed  with  a  shrug 
of  despair.  I  was  alone — and,  as  it  seemed,  ruined. 
Alas,  why  must  I  blurt  out  my  old  lessons  as  though 
I  had  been  standing  again  at  my  father's  knee  and 
not  in  the  presence  of  the  Duke  of  York?  Yes,  my 
race  was  run  before  it  was  begun.  The  Court  was 
not  the  place  for  me.  In  great  bitterness  I  flung  my- 
self down  on  the  cushions  and  sat  there,  out  of  heart 
and  very  dismal.  A  moment  passed ;  then  the  cur- 
tain behind  me  was  drawn  aside,  and  an  amused 
laugh  sounded  in  my  ear  as  I  turned.  A  young 
man  leapt  over  the  couch  and  threw  himself  down 
beside  me,  laughing  heartily  and  crying, — 

"  Well  done,  well  done !  I'd  have  given  a  thousand 
crowns  to  see  their  faces !  " 

I  sprang  to  my  feet  in  amazement  and  confusion, 
bowing  low,  for  the  young  man  by  me  was  the  Duke 
of  Monmouth. 

"  Sit,  man,"  said  he,  pulling  me  down  again.  "  I 
was  behind  the  curtain,  and  heard  it  all.  Thank  God, 
I  held  my  laughter  in  till  they  were  gone.  The  liber- 
ties of  the  Kingdom  and  the  safety  of  the  Reformed 
Religion !  Here's  a  story  for  the  King !  "  He  lay 
back,  seeming  to  enjoy  the  jest  most  hugely. 

"  For  the  love  of  heaven,  sir,"  I  cried,  "  don't  tell 
the  King!  I'm  already  ruined." 

"  Why,  so  you  are,  with  my  good  uncle,"  said  he. 
"You're  new  to  Court,  Mr.  Dale?" 

"  Most  sadly  new,"  I  answered  in  a  rueful  tone, 
which  set  him  laughing  again. 


86  Simon  Dale* 

"  You  hadn't  heard  the  scandalous  stories  that  ac- 
cuse the  Duke  of  loving  the  Reformed  Religion  no 
better  than  the  liberties  of  the  Kingdom  ?" 

"  Indeed,  no,  sir." 

"  And  my  Lord  Arlington  ?  I  know  him !  He 
held  your  arm  to  the  last,  and  he  smiled  to  the  last?" 

"  Indeed,  sir,  my  lord  was  most  gentle  to  me." 

"  Aye,  I  know  his  way.  Mr.  Dale,  for  this  enter- 
tainment let  me  call  you  friend.  Come  then,  we'll 
go  to  the  King  with  it."  And,  rising,  he  seized  me 
by  the  arm  and  began  to  drag  me  off. 

"  Indeed,  your  Grace  must  pardon  me "  I  be- 
gan. 

"  But,  indeed,  I  will  not,"  he  persisted.  Then  he 
suddenly  grew  grave  as  he  said,  "  I  am  for  the  liber- 
ties of  the  Kingdom  and  the  safety  of  the  Reformed 
Religion.  Aren't  we  friends,  then  ?  " 

"  Your  Grace  does  me  infinite  honour." 

"  And  am  I  no  good  friend  ?  Is  there  no  value  in 
the  friendship  of  the  King's  son — the  King's  eldest 
son  ?  "  He  drew  himself  up  with  a  grace  and  a  dignity 
which  became  him  wonderfully.  Often  in  these  later 
days  I  see  him  as  he  was  then,  and  think  of  him  with 
tenderness.  Say  what  you  will,  he  made  many  love 
him  even  to  death,  who  would  not  have  lifted  a  finger 
for  his  father  or  the  Duke  of  York. 

Yet  in  an  instant — such  slaves  are  we  of  our  moods 
— I  was  more  than  half  in  a  rage  with  him.  For  as  we 
went  we  encountered  Mistress  Barbara  on  Lord  Car- 
ford's  arm.  The  quarrel  between  them  seemed  past 
and  they  were  talking  merrily  together.  On  the  sight 
of  her  the  Duke  left  me  and  ran  forward.  By  an  adroit 
movement  he  thrust  Carford  aside  and  began  to  ply 
the  lady  with  most  extravagant  and  high-flown  com- 
pliments, displaying  an  excess  of  devotion  which  wit- 
nessed more  admiration  than  respect.  She  had  treated 
me  as  a  boy,  but  she  did  not  tell  him  that  he  was  a 


What  came  of  Honesty«  87 

boy,  although  he  was  younger  than  I  ;  she  listened 
with  heightened  colour  and  sparkling  eyes.  I  glanced 
at  Carford  and  found,  to  my  surprise,  no  signs  of  an- 
noyance at  his  unceremonious  deposition.  He  was 
watching  the  pair  with  a  shrewd  smile  and  seemed  to 
mark  with  pleasure  the  girl's  pride  and  the  young 
Duke's  evident  passion.  Yet  I,  who  heard  something 
of  what  passed,  had  much  ado  not  to  step  in  and  bid 
her  pay  no  heed  to  homage  that  was  empty  if  not  dis- 
honouring. 

Suddenly  the  Duke  turned  round  and  called  to  me. 

"  Mr.  Dale,"  he  cried,  "  there  needed  but  one  thing 
to  bind  us  closer,  and  here  it  is!  For  you  are,  I  learn, 
the  friend  of  Mistress  Quinton,  and  I  am  the  humblest 
of  her  slaves,  who  serve  all  her  friends  for  her  sake." 

"  Why,  what  would  your  Grace  do  for  my  sake  ?  " 
asked  Barbara. 

"  What  wouldn't  I  ? "  he  cried,  as  if  transported. 
Then  he  added,  rather  low,  "  Though  I  fear  you're  too 
cruel  to  do  anything  for  mine." 

"  I  am  listening  to  the  most  ridiculous  speeches  in 
the  world  for  your  Grace's  sake,"  said  Barbara,  with  a 
pretty  curtsey  and  a  coquettish  smile. 

"Is  love  ridiculous?"  he  asked.  "Is  passion  a 
thing  to  smile  at  ?  Cruel  Mistress  Barbara !  " 

"  Won't  your  Grace  set  it  in  verse  ?  "  said  she. 

"  Your  grace  writes  it  in  verse  on  my  heart,"  said 
he. 

Then  Barbara  looked  across  at  me,  it  may  be  acci- 
dentally, yet  it  did  not  appear  so,  and  she  laughed 
merrily.  It  needed  no  skill  to  measure  the  meaning 
of  her  laugh,  and  I  did  not  blame  her  for  it.  She  had 
waited  for  years  to  avenge  the  kiss  that  I  gave  Cyda- 
ria  in  the  Manor  park  at  Hatchstead  ;  but  was  it  not 
well  avenged  when  I  stood  humbly,  in  deferential 
silence,  at  the  back  while  his  Grace  the  Duke  sued  for 
her  favour,  and  half  the  Court  looked  on  ?  I  will  not 


88  Simon  Dale* 

set  myself  down  a  churl  where  nature  has  not  made 
me  one ;  I  said  in  my  heart  and  I  tried  to  say  to  her 
with  my  eyes,  "  Laugh,  sweet  mistress,  laugh  !  "  For 
I  love  a  girl  who  will  laugh  at  you  when  the  game  runs 
in  her  favour. 

The  Duke  fell  to  his  protestations  again,  and  Carford 
still  listened  with  an  acquiescence  that  seemed  strange 
in  a  suitor  for  the  lady's  hand.  But  now  Barbara's 
modesty  took  alarm  ;  the  signal  of  confusion  flew  in 
her  cheeks  and  she  looked  round,  distressed  to  see 
how  many  watched  them.  Monmouth  cared  not  a  jot. 
I  made  bold  to  slip  across  to  Carford,  and  said  to  him 
in  a  low  tone, — 

"  My  lord,  his  Grace  makes  Mistress  Barbara  too 
much  marked.  Can't  you  contrive  to  interrupt  him  ?  " 

He  stared  at  me  with  a  smile  of  wonder.  But  some- 
thing in  my  look  banished  his  smile  and  set  a  frown  in 
its  place. 

"  Must  I  have  more  lessons  in  manners  from  you, 
sir?  "  he  asked.  "  And  do  you  include  a  discourse  on 
the  interrupting  of  princes?" 

"  Princes?"  said  I. 

"The  Duke  of  Monmouth  is " 

"  The  King's  son,  my  lord,"  I  interposed,  and  carry- 
ing my  hat  in  my  hand  I  walked  up  to  Barbara  and  the 
Duke.  She  looked  at  me  as  I  came,  but  not  now 
mockingly  ;  there  was  rather  an  appeal  in  her  eyes. 

"  Your  Grace  will  not  let  me  lose  my  audience  with 
the  King?  "  said  I. 

He  started,  looked  at  me,  frowned,  looked  at  Bar- 
bara, frowned  deeper  still.  I  remained  quiet,  in  an 
attitude  of  great  deference.  Puzzled  to  know  whether 
I  had  spoken  in  sheer  simplicity  and  ignorance,  or 
with  a  meaning  which  seemed  too  bold  to  believe  in, 
he  broke  into  a  doubtful  laugh.  In  an  instant  Bar- 
bara drew  away  with  a  curtsey.  He  did  not  pursue 
her,  but  caught  my  arm  and  looked  hard  and  straight 


"What  came  of  Honesty*  If 

in  my  face.  I  am  happily  somewhat  wooden  of  fea- 
ture, and  a  man  could  not  make  me  colour  now  al- 
though a  woman  could.  He  took  nothing  by  his 
examination. 

"You  interrupted  me,"  he  said. 

"  Alas,  your  Grace  knows  how  poor  a  courtier  I  am, 
and  how  ignorant " 

"  Ignorant !  "  he  cried  ;  "  yes,  you're  mighty  ignorant, 
no  doubt ;  but  I  begin  to  think  you  know  a  pretty  face 
when  you  see  it,  Master  Simon  Dale.  Well,  I'll  not 
quarrel.  Isn't  she  the  most  admirable  creature  alive?  " 

"  I  had  supposed  Lord  Carford  thought  so,  sir." 

"Oh  !  And  yet  Lord  Carford  did  not  hurry  me  off 
to  find  the  King !  But  you  ?  What  say  you  to  the 
question?" 

"  I'm  so  dazzled,  sir,  by  all  the  beautiful  ladies  of 
his  Majesty's  Court  that  I  can  hardly  perceive  indi- 
vidual charms." 

He  laughed  again  and  pinched  my  arm,  saying, — 

"  We  all  love  what  we  have  not.  The  Duke  of 
York  is  in  love  with  truth,  the  King  with  chastity, 
Buckingham  with  modesty  of  demeanour,  Rochester 
with  seemliness,  Arlington  with  sincerity,  and  I, 
Simon, — I  do  fairly  worship  discretion  !  " 

"  Indeed  I  fear  I  can  boast  of  little,  sir." 

"  You  shall  boast  of  none,  and  thereby  show  the 
more,  Simon.  Come,  there's  the  King."  And  he 
darted  on,  in  equal  good  humour,  as  it  seemed,  with 
himself  and  me.  Moreover  he  lost  no  time  on  his 
errand,  for  when  I  reached  his  side  (since  they  who 
made  way  for  him  afforded  me  no  such  civility)  he  had 
not  only  reached  the  King's  chair,  but  was  half  way 
through  his  story  of  my  answer  to  the  Duke  of  York  ; 
all  chance  of  stopping  him  was  gone. 

"  Now  I'm  damned  indeed,"  thought  I ;  but  I  set 
my  teeth,  and  listened  with  unmoved  face. 

At  this  moment  the  King  was  alone,  save  for  our- 


90  Simon  Dale* 

selves  and  a  little  long-eared  dog,  which  lay  on  his  lap 
and  was  incessantly  caressed  with  his  hand.  He 
heard  his  son's  story  with  a  face  as  impassive  as  I 
strove  to  render  mine.  At  the  end  he  looked  up  at 
me,  asking, — 

"  What  are  these  liberties  which  are  so  dear  to  you, 
sir?" 

My  tongue  had  got  me  into  trouble  enough  for  one 
day,  so  I  set  its  music  to  a  softer  tune. 

"Those  which  I  see  preserved  and  honoured  by 
your  Majesty,"  said  I,  bowing. 

Monmouth  laughed,  and  clapped  me  on  the  back ; 
but  the  King  proceeded  gravely, — 

"  And  this  Reformed  Religion  that  you  set  above 
my  orders?  " 

"The  Faith,  Sir,  of  which  you  are  Defender." 

"  Come,  Mr.  Dale,"  said  he,  rather  surlily,  "  if  you 
had  spoken  to  my  brother  as  skilfully  as  you  fence 
with  me,  he  would  not  have  been  angry." 

I  do  not  know  what  came  over  me.  I  said  it  in  all 
honest  simplicity,  meaning  only  to  excuse  myself  for 
the  disrespect  I  had  shown  to  the  Duke  ;  but  I  phrased 
the  sentence  most  vilely,  for  I  said, — 

"  When  his  Royal  Highness  questioned  me,  Sir,  I 
had  to  speak  the  truth." 

Monmouth  burst  into  a  roar,  and  a  moment  later 
the  King  followed  with  a  more  subdued  but  not  less 
thorough  merriment.  When  his  mirth  subsided  he 
said, — 

"True,  Mr.  Dale.  I  am  a  king,  and  no  man  is 
bound  to  speak  truth  to  me.  Nor,  by  heaven — and 
there's  a  compensation — I  to  any  man  !  " 

"  Nor  woman,"  said  Monmouth,  looking  at  the 
ceiling  in  apparent  absence  of  mind. 

"  Nor  even  boy,"  added  the  King,  with  an  amused 
glance  at  his  son.  "  Well,  Mr.  Dale,  can  you  serve 
me  and  this  conscience  of  yours  also?" 


What  came  of  Honesty.  91 

"  Indeed  I  cannot  doubt  it,  Sir,"  said  I. 

"  A  man's  king  should  be  his  conscience,"  said  the 
King. 

"And  what  should  be  conscience  to  the  King,  Sir?" 
asked  Monmouth. 

"Why,  James,  a  recognition  of  what  evil  things  he 
may  bring  into  the  world,  if  he  doesn't  mind  his 
ways." 

Monmouth  saw  the  hit,  and  took  it  with  pretty 
grace,  bending  and  kissing  the  King's  hand. 

"  It  is  difficult,  Mr.  Dale,  to  serve  two  masters," 
said  the  King,  turning  again  to  me. 

"  Your  Majesty  is  my  only  master,"  I  began,  but  the 
King  interrupted  me,  going  on  with  some  amuse- 
ment,— 

"  Yet  I  should  like  to  have  seen  my  brother." 

"  Let  him  serve  me,  Sir,"  cried  Monmouth.  "  For 
I  am  firm  in  my  love  of  these  liberties,  aye,  and  of  the 
Reformed  Religion," 

"  I  know,  James,  I  know,"  nodded  the  King.  "  It  is 
grievous  and  strange,  however,  that  you  should  speak 
as  though  my  brother  were  not."  He  smiled  very 
maliciously  at  the  young  Duke,  who  flushed  red.  The 
King  suddenly  laughed,  and  fell  to  fondling  the  little 
dog  again. 

"Then,  Sir,"  said  Monmouth,  "  Mr.  Dale  may  come 
with  me  to  Dover?  " 

My  heart  leapt,  for  all  the  talk  now  was  of  Dover, 
of  the  gaiety  that  would  be  there,  and  the  correspond- 
ing dullness  in  London,  when  the  King  and  the  Duke 
were  gone  to  meet  Madame  d'Orl£ans.  I  longed  to 
go,  and  the  little  hope  I  had  cherished  that  Darrell's 
good  offices  with  the  Secretary  of  State  would  serve 
me  to  that  end  had  vanished.  Now  I  was  full  of  joy, 
although  I  watched  the  King's  face  anxiously. 

For  some  reason  the  suggestion  seemed  to  occasion 
him  amusement ;  yet,  although  for  the  most  part  he 


92  Simon  Dale* 

laughed  openly  without  respect  of  matter  or  person, 
he  now  bent  over  his  little  dog,  as  though  he  sought 
to  hide  the  smile,  and  when  he  looked  up  again  it 
hung  about  his  lips  like  the  mere  ghost  of  mirth. 

"  Why  not  ?  "  said  he.  "  To  Dover,  by  all  means. 
Mr.  Dale  can  serve  you  and  me,  and  his  principles,  as 
well  at  Dover  as  in  London." 

I  bent  on  one  knee  and  kissed  his  hand  for  the 
favour.  When  I  sought  to  do  the  like  to  Monmouth 
he  was  very  ready,  and  received  my  homage  most 
regally.  As  I  rose,  the  King  was  smiling  at  the  pair 
of  us  in  a  whimsical,  melancholy  way. 

"  Be  off  with  you,  boys,"  said  he,  as  though  we  were 
a  pair  of  lads  from  the  grammar  school.  "  Ye  are 
both  fools,  and  James  there  is  but  indifferently 
honest.  But  every  hour's  a  chance  and  every  wench 
an  angel  to  you.  Do  what  you  will  and  God  forgive 
your  sins."  And  he  lay  back  in  his  great  chair  with  a 
good-humoured,  lazy,  weary  smile  as  he  idly  patted  the 
little  dog.  In  spite  of  all  that  all  men  knew  of  him,  I 
felt  my  heart  warm  to  him,  and  I  knelt  on  my  knee 
again,  saying,— 

"  God  save  your  Majesty." 

"God  is  omnipotent,"  said  the  King,  gravely.  "I 
thank  you,  Mr.  Dale." 

Thus  dismissed,  we  walked  off  together,  and  I  was 
awaiting  the  Duke's  pleasure  to  relieve  him  also  of  my 
company,  when  he  turned  to  me  with  a  smile,  his 
white  teeth  gleaming. 

"  The  Queen  sends  a  maid  of  honour  to  wait  on 
Madame,"  said  he. 

"  Indeed,  sir.     It  is  very  fitting." 

"And  the  Duchess  sends  one  also.  If  you  could 
choose  from  among  the  Duchess's — for  I  swear  no 
man  in  his  senses  would  choose  any  of  her  Majesty's 
— whom  would  you  choose,  Mr.  Dale?" 

"  It  is  not  for  me  to  say,  your  Grace,"  I  answered. 


What  came  of  Honesty.  93 

"Well,"  said  he,  regarding  me  drolly,  "I  would 
choose  Mistress  Barbara  Quinton."  And  with  a  last 
laugh  he  ran  off  in  hot  pursuit  of  a  lady  who  passed 
at  that  moment  and  cast  a  very  kindly  glance  at 
him. 

Left  alone,  but  in  a  good  humour  that  the  Duke's 
last  jest  could  not  embitter,  I  stood  watching  the 
scene.  The  play  had  begun  now  on  a  stage  at  the 
end  of  the  hall,  but  nobody  seemed  to  heed  it.  They 
walked  to  and  fro,  talking  always,  ogling,  quarrelling, 
love-making  and  intriguing.  I  caught  sight  here  of 
great  ladies,  there  of  beauties  whose  faces  were  their 
fortune — or  their  ruin,  which  you  will.  Buckingham 
went  by,  fine  as  a  galley  in  full  sail.  The  Duke  of 
York  passed  with  Mr.  Hudleston  ;  my  salute  went  un- 
acknowledged. Clifford  came  soon  after ;  he  bowed 
slightly  when  I  bowed  to  him,  but  his  heartiness  was 
gone.  A  moment  later  Darrell  was  by  my  side;  his 
ill-humour  was  over,  but  he  lifted  his  hands  in  comical 
despair. 

"  Simon,  Simon,  you're  hard  to  help,"  said  he. 
"Alas,  I  must  go  to  Dover  without  you,  my  friend  ! 
Couldn't  you  restrain  your  tongue?" 

"  My  tongue  has  done  me  no  great  harm,"  said  I, 
"and  you  needn't  go  to  Dover  alone." 

"What?"  he  cried,  amazed. 

"  Unless  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  and  my  Lord  Ar- 
lington travel  apart." 

"The  Duke  of  Monmouth?  What  have  you  to  do 
with  him  ?  " 

"  I  am  to  enter  his  service,"  I  answered,  proudly ; 
"  and  moreover  I'm  to  go  with  him  to  Dover  to  meet 
Madame  d'Orleans." 

"Why,  why?  How  comes  this?  How  were  you 
brought  to  his  notice  ?  " 

I  looked  at  him,  wondering  at  his  eagerness.  Then 
I  took  him  by  the  arm,  and  I  said  laughingly, — 


94  Simon  Dale* 

"  Come,  I  am  teachable,  and  I  have  learnt  my  les- 
son." 

"  What  lesson  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  To  restrain  my  tongue,"  said  I.  "  Let  those  who 
are  curious  as  to  the  Duke  of  Monmouth's  reasons  for 
his  favour  to  me,  ask  the  Duke." 

He  laughed,  but  I  caught  vexation  in  his  laugh. 

"True,  you're  teachable,  Simon,"  said  he. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 
Madness,  Magic,  and  Moonshine* 

WHEN  the  curtain  had  fallen  on  the  little  heeded 
play  and  the  gay  crowd  began  to  disperse,  I,  perceiv- 
ing that  no  more  was  to  be  seen  or  learnt,  went  home 
to  my  lodging  alone.  After  our  conversation  Darrell 
had  left  me  abruptly,  and  I  saw  him  no  more.  But 
my  own  thoughts  gave  me  occupation  enough ;  for 
even  to  a  dull  mind,  and  one  unversed  in  Court  in- 
trigues, it  seemed  plain  that  more  hung  on  this  ex- 
pedition to  Dover  than  the  meeting  of  the  King's 
sister  with  her  brother.  So  far  all  men  were  of  the 
same  opinion;  beyond,  their  variance  began.  I  had 
not  thought  to  trouble  my  head  about  it,  but,  not 
having  learnt  yet  that  a  small  man  lives  most  comfort- 
ably with  the  great  by  opening  his  eyes  and  ears  only 
when  bidden  and  keeping  them  tight  locked  for  the 
rest,  I  was  inspired  with  eagerness  to  know  the  full 
meaning  of  the  scene  in  which  I  was  now  to  play  a 
part  however  humble.  Of  one  thing  at  least  I  was 
glad — here  I  touched  on  a  matter  more  suitable  to  my 
condition — and  this  was  that  since  Barbara  Quinton 
was  to  go  to  Dover,  I  was  to  go  also.  But,  alas, 
neither  here  did  perplexity  lag  far  behind  !  It  is  easy 
to  know  that  you  are  glad  to  be  with  a  lady ;  your 
very  blood  tells  you  ;  but  to  say  why  is  often  difficult. 
I  told  myself  that  my  sole  cause  for  pleasure  lay  in  the 
services  I  might  be  able  to  render  to  my  old  friend's 
daughter :  she  would  want  one  to  run  her  errands  and 


9*  Simon  Dale. 

do  her  bidding;  an  attentive  cavalier,  however  lowly, 
seldom  comes  amiss.  These  pleas  I  muttered  to  myself, 
but  swelling  pride  refused  them,  and  for  once  reason 
came  as  pride's  ally,  urging  that  in  such  company  as 
would  assemble  at  Dover,  a  girl  might  well  need  pro- 
tection no  less  than  compliments.  It  was  true;  my 
new  master's  bearing  to  her  showed  how  true.  And 
Carford  was  not,  it  seemed,  a  jealous  lover.  I  was  no 
lover — my  life  was  vowed  to  another  most  unhappy 
love — but  I  was  a  gentleman,  and  (sweet  thought  !)  the 
hour  might  come  when  the  face  which  had  looked  so 
mockingly  at  me  to-night  should  turn  again  in  appeal 
to  the  wit  and  arm  of  Simon  Dale.  I  grew  taller  as  I 
thought  of  that,  and,  coming  just  then  to  my  own 
door,  rapped  with  my  cane  as  loudly  and  defiantly  as 
though  I  had  been  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  himself, 
and  not  a  gentleman  in  his  suite. 

Loud  as  my  rapping  was,  it  brought  no  immediate 
answer.  Again  I  knocked ;  then  feet  came  shuffling 
along  the  passage.  I  had  aroused  my  sleepy  wretch  ; 
doubtless  he  would  come  groaning  (for  Jonah  might 
not  curse  save  in  the  way  of  religion),  and  rubbing  his 
eyes  to  let  me  in.  The  door  opened  and  Jonah  ap- 
peared :  his  eyes  were  not  dull  with  sleep  but  seemed 
to  blaze  with  some  strong  excitement ;  he  had  not 
been  to  his  bed  for  his  dress  was  not  disordered,  and  a 
light  burnt  bright  in  my  parlour.  To  crown  all,  from 
the  same  parlour  came  the  sound  of  a  psalm  most 
shrilly  and  villainously  chanted  through  the  nose  in  a 
voice  familiar  to  my  ears.  I,  unlike  my  servant,  had 
not  bound  myself  against  an  oath  where  the  case 
called,  and  with  a  round  one  that  sent  Jonah's  eyes  in 
agony  up  to  the  ceiling  I  pushed  by  him  and  ran  into 
the  parlour.  A  sonorous  "Amen  "  came  pat  with  my 
entrance ;  Phineas  Tate  stood  before  me,  lean  and 
pale,  but  calm  and  placid. 

"  What  in  the  devil's  name  brings  you  here  ?  "  I  cried. 


Madness,  Magic,  and  Moonshine.  9) 

"The  service  of  God,"  he  answered,  solemnly. 

"What,  does  it  forbid  sleep  at  nights?" 

"  Have  you  been  sleeping,  young  man  ?  "  he  asked, 
pertinently  enough,  as  I  must  allow. 

"  I  have  been  paying  my  respects  to  his  Majesty," 
said  I. 

"  God  forgive  him  and  you,"  was  the  retort. 

"  Perhaps,  sir,  perhaps  not,"  I  replied,  for  I  was 
growing  angry.  "  But  I  have  asked  your  intercession 
no  more  than  has  the  King.  If  Jonah  brought  you 
here,  it  was  without  my  leave  ;  I  beg  you  to  take 
your  departure.  Jonah,  hold  the  door  there  for  Mr. 
Tate." 

The  man  raised  his  hand  impressively. 

"  Hear  my  message  first,"  he  said.  "  I  am  sent 
unto  you,  that  you  may  turn  from  sin.  For  the  Lord 
has  appointed  you  to  be  his  instrument.  Even  now 
the  plot  is  laid,  even  now  men  conspire  to  bring  this 
kingdom  again  into  the  bondage  of  Rome.  Have  you 
no  ears,  have  you  no  eyes,  are  you  blind  and  deaf? 
Turn  to  me,  and  I  will  make  you  see  and  hear.  For 
it  is  given  to  me  to  show  you  the  way." 

I  was  utterly  weary  of  the  fellow,  and,  in  despair  of 
getting  quit  of  him,  flung  myself  into  a  chair.  But 
his  next  words  caught  my  attention. 

"The  man  who  lives  here  with  you — what  of  him? 
Is  he  not  an  enemy  of  God  ?  " 

"  Mr.  Darrell  is  of  the  Romish  faith,"  said  I,  smiling 
in  spite  of  myself,  for  a  kinder  soul  than  Darrell  I  had 
never  met. 

Phineas  came  close  to  me,  leaning  over  me  with  an 
admonishing  forefinger  and  a  mysterious  air. 

"  What  did  he  want  with  you  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Yet 
cleave  to  him.  Be  where  he  is,  go  where  he  goes." 

"  If  it  comforts  you,  I  am  going  where  he  goes," 
said  I,  yawning.  "  For  we  are  both  going  to  Dover 
when  the  King  goes." 


98  Simon  Dale. 

"  It  is  God's  finger  and  God's  will !  "  cried  Phineas, 
catching  me  by  the  shoulder. 

"  Enough !  "  I  shouted,  leaping  up.  "  Keep  your 
hands  off  me,  man,  if  you  can't  keep  your  tongue. 
What  is  it  to  you  that  we  go  to  Dover  ?  " 

"Aye,  what?"  came  suddenly  in  Darrell's  voice. 
He  stood  in  the  doorway  with  a  fierce  and  angry 
frown  on  his  face.  A  moment  later  he  was  across  the 
room  and  laid  his  hand  on  Phineas.  "  Do  you  want 
another  cropping  of  your  ears?  "  he  asked. 

"  Do  your  will  on  me,"  cried  the  fanatic.  And 
sweeping  away  his  lanky  hair  he  showed  his  ears ; 
to  my  horror  they  had  been  cropped  level  across  their 
tops  by  the  shears.  "  Do  your  will,"  he  shrieked,  "  I 
am  ready.  But  your  hour  comes  also  ;  yea,  your  cup 
shall  soon  be  full." 

Darrell  spoke  to  him  in  low,  stern  tones. 

"  It  may  be  more  than  ears,  if  you  will  not  bridle 
your  tongue.  It's  not  for  you  to  question  why  the 
King  comes  or  goes." 

I  saw  Jonah's  face  at  the  door,  pale  with  fright  as 
he  looked  at  the  two  men.  The  interest  of  the  scene 
grew  on  me ;  the  talk  of  Dover  seemed  to  pursue  me 
strangely. 

"  But  this  young  man,"  pursued  Phineas,  utterly 
unmoved  by  Darrell's  threat,  "  is  not  of  you  ;  he 
shall  be  snatched  from  the  burning,  and  by  his  hand 
the  Lord  will  work  a  great  deliverance." 

Darrell  turned  to  me  and  said  stiffly, — 

"  This  room  is  yours,  sir,  not  mine.  Do  you  suffer 
the  presence  of  this  mischievous  knave  ?  " 

"  I  suffer  what  I  can't  help,"  I  answered.  "  Mr. 
Tate  doesn't  ask  my  pleasure  in  his  coming  and  going 
any  more  than  the  King  asks  Mr.  Tate's  in  his." 

"  It  would  do  you  no  good,  sir,  to  have  it  known 
that  he  was  here,"  Darrell  reminded  me,  with  a  sig- 
nificant nod  of  his  head. 


Madness,  Magic,  and  Moonshine.  99 

Darrell  had  been  a  good  friend  to  me  and  had  won 
my  regard,  but,  from  an  infirmity  of  temper  that  1 
have  touched  on  before,  his  present  tone  set  me 
against  him.  I  take  reproof  badly,  and  age  has  hardly 
tamed  me  to  it. 

"  No  good  with  whom  ?  "  I  asked,  smiling.  "  The 
Duke  of  York  ?  My  Lord  Arlington  ?  Or  do  you 
mean  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  ?  It  is  he  whom  I  have 
to  please  now." 

"  None  of  them  love  Ranters,"  answered  Darrell, 
keeping  his  face  stiff  and  inscrutable. 

"  But  one  of  them  may  prefer  a  Ranter  to  a  Papist," 
laughed  I. 

The  thrust  told,  Darrell  grew  red.  To  myself  I 
seemed  to  have  hit  suddenly  on  the  key  of  a  mystery. 
Was  I  then  a  pawn  in  the  great  game  of  the  Churches, 
and  Darrell  another,  and,  (to  speak  it  with  all  due 
respect),  these  grand  dukes  little  better?  Had 
Phineas  Tate  also  his  place  on  the  board  where  souls 
made  the  stakes  ?  In  such  a  game  none  is  too  low  for 
value,  none  too  high  for  use.  Surely  my  finger  was 
on  the  spring !  At  least  I  had  confounded  Darrell ; 
his  enemy,  taking  my  help  readily  enough,  glared  on 
him  in  most  unchristian  exultation,  and  then,  turning 
to  me,  cried  in  a  species  of  fierce  ecstasy, — 

"  Think  not  that  because  you  are  unworthy,  you 
shall  not  serve  God.  The  work  sanctifies  the  instru- 
ment ;  yea,  it  makes  clean  that  which  is  foul.  Verily, 
at  His  hour,  God  may  work  through  a  woman  of  sin." 
And  he  fixed  his  eyes  intently  on  me. 

I  read  a  special  meaning  in  his  words,  my  thoughts 
flew  readily  to  the  Cock  and  Pie  in  Drury  Lane. 

"  Yea,  through  a  woman  of  sin,"  he  repeated  slowly 
and  solemnly;  then  he  faced  round,  swift  as  the  wind, 
on  Darrell,  and,  minding  my  friend's  sullen  scowl  not 
a  whit,  cried  to  him,  "  Repent,  repent,  vengeance  is 
near !  "  and  so  at  last  was  out  of  the  room  before 


ioo  Simon  Dale* 

either  of  us  could  hinder  him,  had  we  wished,  or  could 
question  him  further.  I  heard  the  house-door  shut 
behind  him,  and  I  rose,  looking  at  Darrell  with  an 
easy  smile. 

"  Madness  and  moonshine,  good  friend,"  said  I. 
"  Don't  let  it  disturb  you.  If  Jonah  admits  the  fellow 
again  he  shall  answer  for  it." 

"  Indeed,  Mr.  Dale,  when  I  prayed  you  to  share  my 
lodging,  I  did  not  foresee  the  nature  of  your  com- 
pany." 

"  Fate  more  than  choice  makes  a  man's  company," 
said  I.  "  Now  it's  you,  now  Phineas,  now  my  lord  the 
Secretary,  and  now  his  Grace  the  Duke.  Indeed,  see- 
ing how  destiny — or  if  you  will,  chance — rules,  a  man 
may  well  be  thought  a  fool  who  makes  a  plan  or 
chooses  a  companion.  For  my  own  part,  I  am  fate's 
child  and  fate  shall  guide  me." 

He  was  still  stiff  and  cold  with  me,  but  my  friendly 
air  and  my  evident  determination  to  have  no  quarrel 
won  him  to  civility  if  to  no  warmer  demonstration  of 
regard. 

"  Fate's  child  ? "  he  asked  with  a  little  scorn,  but 
seating  himself  and  smoothing  his  brow.  "You're 
fate's  child  ?  Isn't  that  an  arrogant  speech,  Simon  ?  " 

"  If  it  weren't  true,  most  arrogant,"  I  answered. 
"Come,  I'll  tell  you;  it's  too  soon  for  bed  and  too 
late  to  go  abroad.  Jonah,  bring  us  some  wine,  and  if 
it  be  good,  you  shall  be  forgiven  for  admitting  Master 
Tate." 

Jonah  went  off  and  presently  returned  with  a  bot- 
tle which  we  drank,  while  I,  with  the  candour  I  had 
promised,  told  my  friend  of  Betty  Nasroth  and  her 
prophecy.  He  heard  me  with  an  attention  which 
belied  the  contempt  he  asserted ;  I  have  noticed  that 
men  pay  heed  to  these  things  however  much  they 
laugh  at  them.  At  the  end,  growing  excited  not  only 
with  the  wine  but  with  the  fumes  of  life  which  had 


Madness,  Magic,  and  Moonshine.  101 

been  mounting  into  my  young  brain  all  the  day,  I 
leapt  up,  crying  aloud, — 

"  And  isn't  it  true  ?  Sha'n't  I  know  what  he  hides? 
Sha'n't  I  drink  of  his  cup  ?  For  isn't  it  true?  Don't 
I  already,  to  my  infinite  misery,  love  where  he  loves  ?  " 
For  the  picture  of  Nell  had  come  suddenly  across  me 
in  renewed  strength  and  sweetness ;  when  I  had 
spoken  I  dropped  again  into  my  chair  and  laid  my 
head  down  on  my  arms.  • 

Silence  followed :  Darrell  had  no  words  of  consola- 
tion for  my  woes  and  left  my  lovelorn  cry  unheeded ; 
presently  then  (for  neglected  sorrows  do  not  thrive)  I 
looked  furtively  at  him  between  the  fingers  of  my 
hand.  He  sat  moody,  thoughtful  and  frowning.  I 
raised  my  head  and  met  his  eyes.  He  leant  across 
the  table,  saying  in  a  sneering  tone,  "  A  fine  witch,  on 
my  life !  You  should  know  what  he  hides?  " 

«  Aye." 

"  And  drink  of  his  cup  ?  " 

"  Aye,  so  she  said." 

He  sat  sunk  in  troubled  thought,  but  I,  being  all 
this  night  torn  to  and  fro  by  changing  and  warring 
moods,  sprang  up  again  and  cried  in  boisterous  scorn, 
"  What,  you  believe  these  fables?  Does  God  reveal 
hidden  things  to  old  crones  ?  I  thought  you  at  Court 
were  not  the  fools  of  such  fancies !  Aren't  they  fitter 
for  rustic  churls,  Mr.  Darrell  ?  God  save  us,  do  we 
live  in  the  days  of  King  James?" 

He  answered  me  shortly  and  sternly,  as  though  I 
had  spoken  of  things  not  to  be  named  lightly, — 

"  It  is  devil's  work,  all  of  it." 

"  Then  the  devil  is  busier  than  he  seems,  even  after 
a  night  at  Court,"  I  said.  "  But  be  it  whose  work  it 
will,  I'll  do  it.  I'll  find  what  he  hides.  I'll  drink  of  his 
cup.  Come,  you're  glum!  Drink,  friend  Darrell! 
Darrell,  what's  in  his  cup?  what  does  he  hide?  Dar- 
rell, what  does  the  King  hide?" 


102  Simon  Dale* 

I  had  caught  him  by  the  shoulder  and  was  staring 
in  his  face.  I  was  all  aglow  and  my  eyes,  no  doubt, 
shone  bright  with  excitement  and  the  exhilaration  of 
the  wine.  The  look  of  me,  or  the  hour  of  the  night, 
or  the  working  of  his  own  superstition,  got  hold  of 
him  ;  for  he  sprang  up,  crying  madly, — 

"  My  God,  do  you  know  ?  "  and  glared  into  my  face 
as  though  I  had  been  the  very  devil  of  whom  I  spoke. 

We  stood  thus  for  a  full  minute.  But  I  grew  cool 
before  my  companion,  wonder  working  the  change  in 
me  sooner  than  confusion  could  in  him.  For  my  ran- 
dom ravings  had  most  marvellously  struck  on  some- 
thing more  than  my  sober  speculations  could  discern. 
The  man  before  me  was  mad — or  he  had  a  secret. 
And  friend  Darrell  was  no  madman. 

"  Do  I  know  ? "  I  asked.  "  Do  I  know  what  ? 
What  could  I,  Simon  Dale,  know  ?  What  in  Heaven's 
name  is  there  to  know  ?  "  And  I  smiled  cunningly, 
as  though  I  sought  to  hide  knowledge  by  a  parade  of 
ignorance. 

"  Nothing,  nothing,"  he  muttered,  uneasily.  "  The 
wine's  got  in  my  head." 

"  Yet  you've  drunk  but  two  glasses ;  I  had  the  rest," 
said  I. 

"  That  damned  Ranter  has  upset  me,"  he  growled, 
"  That  and  the  talk  of  your  cursed  witch." 

"  Can  Ranters  and  witches  make  secrets  where 
there  are  none?"  said  I,  with  a  laugh. 

"  They  can  make  fools  think  there  are  secrets  where 
there  are  none,"  said  he,  rudely. 

"And  other  fools  ask  if  they're  known?"  I  re- 
torted, but  with  a  laugh;  and  I  added,  "I'm  not  for 
a  quarrel,  secret  or  no  secret,  so  if  that's  your  purpose 
in  sitting  the  night  through,  to  bed  with  you,  my 
friend." 

Whether  from  prudence,  or  whether  my  good 
humour  rebuked  his  temper,  he  grew  more  gentle; 


Madness,  Magic,  and  MoonshinCt  1 03 

he  looked  at  me  kindly  enough  and  sighed,  as  he 
said, — 

"  I  was  to  be  your  guide  in  London,  Simon ;  but 
you  take  your  own  path." 

"  The  path  you  snowed  me  was  closed  in  my  face," 
said  I,  "  and  I  took  the  first  that  was  opened  to  me." 

"  By  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  ?  " 

"Yes — or  by  another,  if  it  had  chanced  to  be 
another." 

"  But  why  take  any,  Simon  ?  "  he  urged,  persuasively. 
"  Why  not  live  in  peace  and  leave  these  great  folk 
alone?" 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  I  cried.  "  Is  it  a  bargain  ? 
Whither  shall  we  fly  from  the  turmoil  ?  " 

"  We  !  "  he  exclaimed,  with  a  start. 

"Aren't  you  sick  of  the  same  disease?  Isn't  the 
same  medicine  best  for  you  ?  Come,  shall  we  both  go 
to-morrow  to  Hatchstead — a  pretty  village,  Mr. 
Darrell — and  let  the  great  folk  go  alone  to  Dover?" 

"  You  know  I  cannot.  I  serve  my  Lord  Arling- 
ton." 

"And  I  the  Duke  of  Monmouth." 

"  But  my  lord  is  the  King's  servant." 

"And  his  Grace  the  King's  son." 

"  Oh,  if  you're  obstinate — "  he  began,  frowning. 

"  As  fate,  as  prophecy,  as  witch,  as  Ranter,  as  devil 
or  as  yourself!  "  I  said,  laughing  and  throwing  myself 
into  a  chair  as  he  rose  and  moved  towards  the  door. 

"  No  good  will  come  of  it  to  you,"  he  said,  passing 
me  on  his  way. 

"  What  loyal  servant  looks  to  make  a  profit  of  his 
service  ?  "  I  asked,  smiling. 

"  I  wish  you  could  be  warned." 

"  I'm  warned,  but  not  turned,  Darrell.  Come,  we 
part  friends  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  we  are  friends,"  he  answered,  but  with 
a  touch  of  hesitation. 


104  Simon  Dale* 

"  Saving  our  duty  to  the  King?" 

"If  need  should  come  for  that  reservation,  yes/' 
said  he,  gravely. 

"  And  saving,"  said  I,  "  the  liberties  of  the  King- 
dom and  safety  of  the  Reformed  Religion — if  need 
should  come  for  those  reservations,  Mr.  Darrell,"  and 
I  laughed  to  see  the  frown  gather  again  on  his  brow. 
But  he  made  no  reply,  being  unable  to  trust  his  self- 
control  or  answer  my  light  banter  in  its  own  kind. 
He  left  me  with  no  more  than  a  shake  of  his  head  and 
a  wave  of  his  hand  ;  and  although  we  parted  thus  in 
amity  and  with  no  feelings  save  of  kindness  for  one 
another,  I  knew  that  henceforth  there  must  be  a 
difference  in  our  relations  ;  the  days  of  confidence 
were  gone. 

The  recognition  of  my  loss  weighed  little  with  me. 
The  diffidence  born  of  inexperience  and  of  strange- 
ness to  London  and  the  Court  was  wearing  away ;  the 
desire  for  another's  arm  to  lean  on  and  another's  eyes 
to  see  with  gave  way  before  a  young  man's  pride  in 
his  own  arm's  strength  and  the  keenness  of  his  own 
vision.  There  was  sport  afoot ;  aye,  for  me  in  those 
days  all  things  were  sport,  even  the  high  disputes  of 
Churches  or  of  Kingdoms.  We  look  at  the  world 
through  our  own  glasses ;  little  as  it  recks  of  us,  it  is 
to  us  material  and  opportunity ;  there  in  the  dead  of 
night  I  wove  a  dream  wherein  the  part  of  hero  was 
played  by  Simon  Dale,  with  Kings  and  Dukes  to  bow 
him  on  and  off  the  stage  and  Christendom  to  make  an 
audience.  These  dream-doings  are  brave  things ;  I 
pity  the  man  who  performs  none  of  them,  for  in  them 
you  may  achieve  without  labour,  enjoy  without  ex- 
pense, triumph  without  cruelty ;  aye,  and  sin  mightily 
and  grandly  with  never  a  reckoning  for  it.  Yet  do 
not  be  a  mean  villain  even  in  your  dreaming,  for  that 
sticks  to  you  when  you  awake. 

I  had  supposed  myself  alone  to  be  out  of  bed  and 


Madness,  Magic,  and  Moonshine*  105 

Jonah  Wall  to  have  slunk  off  in  fear  of  my  anger. 
But  now  my  meditations  were  interrupted  by  his  en- 
trance. He  crept  up  to  me  in  an  uneasy  fashion,  but 
seemed  to  take  courage  when  I  did  not  break  into 
abuse,  but  asked  him  mildly  why  he  had  not  sought 
rest  and  what  he  wanted  with  me.  His  first  answer 
was  to  implore  me  to  protect  him  from  Mr.  Darrell's 
wrath  ;  through  Phineas  Tate,  he  told  me  timidly,  he 
had  found  grace  and  he  could  deny  him  nothing ; 
yet,  if  I  bade  him,  he  would  not  admit  him  again. 

"  Let  him  come,"  said  I,  carelessly.  "  Besides,  we 
shall  not  be  long  here,  for  you  and  I  are  going  on  a 
journey,  Jonah." 

"  A  journey,  sir?" 

"Aye  ;  I  go  with  the  Duke  of  Monmouth,  and  you 
go  with  me,  to  Dover  when  the  King  goes." 

Now  either  Dover  was  on  everybody's  brain,  or  was 
very  sadly  on  my  brain,  for  I  swear  even  this  fellow's 
eye  seemed  to  brighten  as  I  named  the  place. 

"  To  Dover,  sir?" 

"  No  less.  You  shall  see  all  the  gaiety  there  is  to 
be  seen,  Jonah." 

The  flush  of  interest  had  died  away,  he  was  dole- 
fully tranquil  and  submissive  again. 

"  Well,  what  do  you  want  with  me?"  I  asked,  for 
I  did  not  wish  him  to  suspect  that  I  detected  any 
change  in  his  manner. 

"A  lady  came  here  to-day,  sir,  in  a  very  fine  coach 
with  Flemish  horses,  and  asked  for  you.  Hearing  you 
were  from  home,  she  called  to  me  and  bade  me  take  a 
message  for  you.  I  prayed  her  to  write  it,  but  she 
laughed,  and  said  she  spoke  more  easily  than  she 
wrote ;  and  she  bade  me  say  that  she  wished  to  see 
you." 

"  What  sort  of  lady  was  she,  Jonah?  " 

"  She  sat  all  the  while  in  the  coach,  sir,  but  she 
seemed  not  tall ;  she  was  very  merry,  sir."  Jonah 


io6  Simon  Dale* 

sighed  deeply  ;  with  him  merriment  stood  high  among 
the  vices  of  our  nature. 

"  She  didn't  say  for  what  purpose  she  wanted  me?" 
I  asked,  as  carelessly  as  I  could. 

"  No,  sir.  She  said  you  would  know  the  purpose, 
and  that  she  would  look  for  you  at  noon  to-morrow." 

"  But  where,  Jonah  ?" 

"At  a  house  called  Burford  House,  sir,  in  Chelsea." 

"  She  gave  you  no  name  ?  " 

"  I  asked  her  name,  and  she  gave  me  one." 

"What  was  it?" 

"  It  was  a  strange  heathenish  name,  and  she  laughed 
as  she  gave  it ;  indeed  she  laughed  all  the  time." 

"There's  no  sin  in  laughter,"  said  I,  dryly.  "You 
may  leave  me.  I  need  no  help  in  undressing." 

"  But  the  name " 

"  By  heaven,  man,  I  know  the  name  !  Be  off  with 
you!  " 

He  shuffled  off,  his  whole  'Banner  expressing  repro- 
bation, whether  most  of  my  oath,  or  of  the  heathenish 
name,  or  of  the  lady  who  gave  it,  I  know  not. 

Well,  if  he  were  so  horror-stricken  at  these  things, 
what  would  he  say  at  learning  with  whom  he  had 
talked  ?  Perhaps  he  would  have  preached  to  her  as 
had  Phineas  Tate,  his  master  in  religion.  For,  beyond 
doubt,  that  heathenish  name  was  Cydaria,  and  that 
fine  coach  with  Flemish  horses — I  left  the  question  of 
that  coach  unanswered. 

The  moment  the  door  was  shut  behind  my  servant, 
I  sprang  to  my  feet,  crying  in  a  low  but  very  vehe- 
ment voice,  "  Never !"  I  would  not  go.  Had  she  not 
wounded  me  enough  ?  Must  I  tear  away  the  bandage 
from  the  gash  ?  She  had  tortured  me,  and  asked  me 
now,  with  a  laugh,  to  be  so  good  as  stretch  myself  on 
the  rack  again.  I  would  not  go.  That  laugh  was 
cruel  insolence.  I  knew  that  laugh.  Ah,  why  so  I 
did — I  knew  it  well — how  it  rose  and  rippled  and  fell, 


Madness,  Magic,  and  Moonshine.  107 

losing  itself  in  echoes  scarcely  audible,  but  rich  with 
enticing  mirth.  Surely  she  was  cunningly  fashioned 
for  the  undoing  of  men  ;  yes,  and  of  herself,  poor 
soul.  What  were  her  coaches,  and  the  Flemish 
horses,  and  the  house  called  Burford  House  in  Chel- 
sea? A  wave  of  memory  swept  over  me  and  I  saw 
her  simple — -well  then,  more  simple  ! — though  always 
merry,  in  the  sweet-smelling  fields  at  home,  playing 
with  my  boy's  heart  as  with  a  toy  that  she  knew  little 
of,  but  yet  by  instinct  handled  deftly.  It  pleased  her 
mightily,  that  toy,  and  she  seemed  to  wonder  when 
she  found  that  it  felt.  She  did  not  feel ;  joy  was  hers, 
nothing  deeper.  Yet  could  she  not,  might  she  not, 
would  she  not  ?  I  knew  what  she  was ;  who  knew 
what  she  might  be?  The  picture  of  her  rose  again 
before  my  eyes,  inviting  a  desperate  venture,  spur- 
ring me  on  to  an  enterprise  in  which  the  effort  seemed 
absurdity,  and  success  would  have  been  in  the  eyes 
of  the  world  calamity.  Yet  an  exaltation  of  spirit 
was  on  me,  and  I  wove  another  dream  that  drove 
the  first  away ;  now  I  did  not  go  to  Dover  to  play 
my  part  in  great  affairs  and  jostle  for  higher  place 
in  a  world  where  in  God's  eyes  all  places  are  equal 
and  all  low,  but  away  back  to  the  country  I  had 
loved,  and  not  alone.  She  should  be  with  me,  love 
should  dress  penitence  in  glowing  robes,  and  purity 
be  decked  more  gloriously  than  all  the  pomps  of  sin. 
Could  it  be?  If  it  could  it  seemed  a  prize  for  which 
all  else  might  be  willingly  forgone,  an  achievement 
rare  and  great,  though  the  page  of  no  history  recorded 
it. 

Phineas  Tate  had  preached  to  her,  and  gone  away 
empty  and  scorned.  I  would  preach  too,  in  different 
tones  and  with  a  different  gospel.  Yet  my  words 
should  have  a  sweetness  his  had  not,  my  gospel  a 
power  that  should  draw  where  his  repelled.  For  my 
love — shaken  not,  yet  shattered  ;  wounded,  not  dead — 


io8  Simon  Dale* 

springing  again  to  full  life  and  force,  should  breathe 
its  vital  energy  into  her  soul  and  impart  of  its  endless 
abundance  till  her  heart  was  full.  Entranced  by  this 
golden  vision,  I  rose  and  looked  from  the  window  at 
the  dawning  day,  praying  that  mine  might  be  the 
task,  the  achievement,  the  reward. 

Bright  dawned  that  day  as  I,  with  brighter  bright- 
ness in  my  heart,  climbed  the  stairs  that  led  to  my 
bedroom.  But  as  I  reached  the  door  of  it,  I  paused. 
There  came  a  sound  from  the  little  closet  beyond, 
where  Jonah  stretched  his  weary  legs,  and,  as  I  hoped, 
had  forgotten  in  harmless  sleep  the  soul  that  he  him- 
self tormented  worse  than  would  the  hell  he  feared. 
No,  he  did  not  rest.  From  his  closet  came  low,  fer- 
vent, earnest  prayers ;  listening  a  minute,  half  in 
scorn,  half  in  pity,  and  in  no  unkindness,  I  heard  him. 

"Praise  be  to  God,"  he  said,  "Who  maketh  the 
crooked  places  straight,  and  openeth  a  path  through 
the  wilderness,  and  setteth  in  the  hand  of  His  servant 
a  sword  wherewith  to  smite  the  ungodly  even  in  high 
places." 

What  crooked  places  were  made  straight,  what  path 
opened,  what  sword  set  in  Jonah's  hand  ?  Of  the  un- 
godly in  high  places  there  was  no  lack  in  the  days  of 
King  Charles.  But  was  Jonah  Wall  to  smite  them  ? 
I  opened  my  door  with  a  laugh.  We  were  all  mad 
that  night,  and  my  madness  lasted  till  the  morning. 
Yes,  till  the  morning  grew  full,  my  second  dream  was 
with  me. 


CHAPTER  EX. 

X 

Of  Gems  and  Pebbles. 

HOW  I  sought  her,  how  I  found  her,  that  fine  house 
of  hers  with  the  lawn  round  it  and  the  river  by  it,  the 
stare  of  her  lackeys,  the  pomp  of  her  living,  the  great 
lord  who  was  bowed  out  as  I  went  in,  the  maid  who 
bridled  and  glanced  and  laughed — they  are  all  there 
in  my  memory,  but  blurred,  confused,  beyond  clear 
recall.  Yet  all  that  she  was,  looked,  said,  aye,  or  left 
the  clearer  for  being  unsaid,  is  graven  on  my  memory 
in  lines  that  no  years  obliterate  and  no  change  of  mind 
makes  hard  to  read.  She  wore  the  great  diamond 
necklace  whose  purchase  was  a  fresh  text  with  the 
serious,  and  a  new  jest  for  the  wits  ;  on  her  neck  it 
gleamed  and  flashed  as  brilliantly  and  variously  as  the 
dazzling  turns  in  her  talk  and  the  unending  chase  of 
fleeting  moods  across  her  face.  Yet  I  started  from  my 
lodging,  sworn  to  win  her,  and  came  home  sworn  to 
have  done  with  her.  Let  me  tell  it ;  I  told  it  to  my- 
self a  thousand  times  in  the  days  that  followed.  But 
even  now,  and  for  all  the  times  that  the  scene  has 
played  itself  again  before  my  unwilling  eyes,  I  can 
scarcely  tell  whence  and  how,  at  the  last,  the  change 
came.  I  think  that  the  pomp  itself,  the  lord  and  the 
lackeys,  the  fine  house,  and  all  her  state  struck,  as  it 
were,  cold  at  my  heart,  dooming  to  failure  the  mad 
appeal  which  they  could  not  smother.  But  there  was 
more ;  for  all  these  might  have  been,  and  yet  not 
reached  or  infected  her  soul.  But  when  I  spoke  to 


no  Simon  Dale* 

her  in  words  that  had  for  me  a  sweetness  so  potent 
as  to  win  me  from  all  hesitation  and  make  as  noth- 
ing the  whole  world  beside,  she  did  not  understand. 
I  saw  that  she  tried  to  understand  ;  when  she  failed,  I 
had  failed  also.  The  flower  was  dead  ;  what  use  then 
to  cherish  or  to  water  it  ?  I  had  not  thought  it  was 
dead,  but  had  prayed  that,  faded  and  choked  though 
it  were,  yet  it  might  find  life  in  the  sunshine  of  my 
love  and  the  water  of  her  tears.  But  she  did  not 
weep,  unless  in  a  passing  petulance  because  I  asked 
what  she  could  not  give  ;  and  the  clouds  swept  dark 
over  my  love's  bright  face. 

And  now,  alas,  I  am  so  wise  that  I  cannot  weep  !  I 
must  rather  smile  to  have  asked,  than  lament  that  my 
asking  was  in  vain.  I  must  wonder  at  her  patience 
in  refusing  kindly,  and  be  no  more  amazed  that  she 
refused  at  last.  Yet  this  sad  wisdom  that  sits  well  on 
age  I  do  not  love  in  youth.  I  was  a  fool ;  but  if  to 
hold  that  good  shall  win  and  a  true  love  prevail  be 
folly,  let  my  sons  be  fools  after  me  until  their  sons  in 
turn  catch  up  from  them  the  torch  of  that  folly  which 
illuminates  the  world. 

You  would  have  said  that  she  had  not  looked  to  see 
me,  for  she  started  as  though  in  surprise  when  I  stood 
before  her,  saying,  "  You  sent  for  me." 

"I  sent  for  you?"  she  cried,  still  as  if  puzzled  ; 
then,  "  Ah,  I  remember.  A  whim  seized  me  as  I 
passed  your  lodging.  Yet  you  deserved  no  such  fa- 
vour, for  you  treated  me  very  rudely — why,  yes,  with 
great  unkindness — last  time  we  met.  But  I  wouldn't 
have  you  think  me  resentful.  Old  friends  must  for- 
give one  another,  mustn't  they?  Besides  you  meant 
no  hurt,  you  were  vexed,  perhaps  you  were  even  sur- 
prised. Were  you  surprised?  No,  you  weren't  sur- 
prised. But  were  you  grieved,  Simon  ?  " 

I  had  been  gazing  dully  at  her,  now  I  spoke  heavily 
and  dully. 


Of  Gems  and  Pebbles.  1 1 1 

"  You  wear  gems  there  on  your  neck,"  said  I,  point- 
ing at  the  necklace. 

"Isn't  the  neck  worthy?"  she  murmured  quickly 
yet  softly,  pulling  her  dress  away  to  let  me  see  the 
better,  and  raising  her  eyes  to  mine. 

"  Yes,  very  worthy.  But  wouldn't  you  be  grieved 
to  find  them  pebbles  ?  " 

"  By  my  faith,  yes !  "  she  laughed,  "  for  I  paid  the 
price  of  gems  for  them." 

"  I  also  paid  the  price  of  a  gem,"  said  I,  "  and 
thought  I  had  it." 

"And  it  proved  a  pebble?*'  said  she,  leaning  over 
me  ;  for  I  had  seated  myself  in  a  chair,  being  in  no 
mood  for  ceremony. 

"  Yes,  a  pebble  ;  a  very  pebble,  a  common  pebble !  " 

"  A  common  pebble  !  "  she  echoed.  "  Oh,  Simon, 
cruel  Simon  !  But  a  pretty  bright  pebble  ?  It  looked 
like  a  gem,  Simon?" 

"  God  forgive  you,  yes.  In  heaven's  name — then — 
long  ago,  when  you  came  to  Hatchstead — what  then? 
Weren't  you  then ?  " 

"  No  gem,"  said  she.  "  Even  then  a  pebble."  Her 
voice  sank  a  little,  as  though  for  a  single  moment 
some  unfamiliar  shame  came  on  her.  "A  common 
pebble,"  she  added,  echoing  my  words. 

"  Then  God  forgive  you,"  said  I  again,  and  I  leant 
my  head  on  my  hand. 

"  And  you,  good  Simon,  do  you  forgive  me  ?  " 

I  was  silent.     She  moved  away  petulantly,  crying, — 

"  You're  all  so  ready  to  call  on  God  to  forgive  !  Is 
forgiveness  God's  only?  Will  none  of  you  forgive 
for  yourselves  ?  Or  are  you  so  righteous  that  you 
can't  do  what  God  must  ?  " 

I  sprang  up  and  came  to  her. 

"  Forgive  !  "  I  cried,  in  a  low  voice.  "  Aye,  I'll  for- 
give. Don't  talk  of  forgiveness  to  me.  I  came  to 
love." 


ii2  Simon  Dale* 

"To  love?  Now?"  Her  eyes  grew  wide  in  won- 
der, amusement,  and  delight. 

"  Yes,"  said  I. 

"You  loved  the  gem;  you'd  love  the  pebble? 
Simon,  Simon,  where  is  Madame  your  mother,  where 
my  good  friend  the  Vicar  ?  Ah,  where's  your  virtue, 
Simon  ?  " 

"  Where  yours  shall  be,"  I  cried,  seizing  and  cover- 
ing her  hands  in  mine.  "Where  yours,  there  mine, 
and  both  in  love  that  makes  delight  and  virtue  one." 
I  caught  a  hand  to  my  lips  and  kissed  it  many  times. 
"  No  sin  comes  but  by  desire,"  said  I,  pleading,  "  and 
if  the  desire  is  no  sin,  there  is  no  sin.  Come  with  me  ! 
I  will  fulfil  all  your  desire  and  make  your  sin  dead." 

She  shrank  back  amazed  ;  this  was  strange  talk  to 
her,  yet  she  left  her  hand  in  mine. 

"Come  with  you  ?  But  whither,  whither?  We  are 
no  more  in  the  fields  at  Hatchstead." 

"  We  could  be  again,"  I  cried.  "  Alone  in  the 
fields  at  Hatchstead." 

Even  now  she  hardly  understood  what  I  would  have, 
or,  understanding,  could  not  believe  that  she  under- 
stood rightly. 

"  You  mean — leave — leave  London  and  go  with  you  ? 
With  you  alone?  '* 

"  Yes — alone  with  your  husband." 

She  pulled  her  hand  away  with  a  jerk,  crying, 
"  You're  mad." 

"  May  be.  Let  me  be  mad,  and  be  mad  yourself 
also,  sweetheart.  If  both  of  us  are  mad,  what  hurt?" 

"  What  I — I  go — I  leave  the  town — I  leave  the 
Court?  And  you? — You're  here  to  seek  your  for- 
tune! " 

"  Mayn't  I  dream  that  I've  found  it?"  And  again 
I  caught  her  hand. 

After  a  moment  she  drew  nearer  to  me ;  I  felt  her 
fingers  press  mine  in  tenderness. 


Of  Gems  and  Pebbles.  113 

"  Poor  Simon  !  "  said  she,  with  a  little  laugh.  "  In- 
deed he  remembers  Cydaria  well.  But  Cydaria,  such 
as  she  was,  even  Cydaria,  is  gone.  And  now  I  am  not 
she."  Then  she  laughed  again,  crying,  "  What  folly  !  " 

"  A  moment  ago  you  didn't  call  it  folly." 

"  Then  I  was  doubly  a  fool,"  she  answered,  with  the 
first  touch  of  bitterness.  "  For  folly  it  is,  deep  and 
black.  I  am  not — nay,  was  I  ever? — one  to  ramble  in 
green  fields  all  day  and  go  home  to  a  cottage." 

"  Never,"  said  I.  "  Nor  will  be  save  for  the  love  of 
a  man  you  love.  Save  for  that,  what  woman  has 
been  ?  But  for  that,  how  many  !  " 

"  Why,  very  few,"  said  she  with  a  gentle  little  laugh. 
"And  of  that  few — I  am  not  one.  Nay,  nor  do  I — 
am  I  cruel  ? — nor  do  I  love  you,  Simon." 

"  You  swear  it  ?  " 

"  But  a  little — as  a  friend,  an  old  friend." 

"And  a  dear  one?" 

"  One  dear  for  a  certain  pleasant  folly  that  he  has." 

"You'll  come?" 

"  No." 

"  Why  not  ?  But  in  a  day  neither  you  nor  I  would 
ask  why." 

"Ask  now.  There's  a  regiment  of  reasons."  Her 
laugh  burst  out  again  ;  yet  her  eyes  seemed  tender. 

"  Give  me  one." 

"  I  have  given  one.     I  don't  love  you." 

"  I  won't  take  it." 

"  I  am  what  I  am." 

"  You  should  be  what  I  would  make  you." 

"  You're  to  live  at  the  Court.  To  serve  the  Duke 
of  Monmouth,  isn't  it?" 

"  What  do  I  care  for  that?     Are  there  no  others  ?  " 

"  Let  go  my  hand — No,  let  it  go.  See  now,  I'll 
show  you.  There's  a  ring  on  it." 

"  I  see  the  ring." 

"  A  rich  one." 


ii4  Simon  Dale. 

"Very  rich." 

"  Simon,  do  you  guess  who  set  it  there  ?" 

"  He  is  your  King  only  while  you  make  him  such." 

"  Nay,"  she  cried,  with  sudden  passion,  "  I  am  set 
on  my  course."  Then  came  defiance.  "  I  wouldn't 
change  it.  Didn't  I  tell  you  once  that  I  might  have 
power  with  the  King?  " 

"  Power  ?  What's  that  to  you  ?  What's  it  to  any 
of  us  beside  love?" 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  anything  about  your  love,"  she 
cried,  fretfully,  "  but  I  know  what  I  love — the  stir, 
and  the  frowns  of  great  ladies,  and  the  courting  of 
great  lords.  Ah,  but  why  do  I  talk?  Do  we  reason 
with  a  madman  ?  " 

"  If  we  are  touched  ever  so  little  with  his  disease." 

She  turned  to  me  with  sparkling  eyes ;  she  spoke 
very  softly. 

"  Ah,  Simon,  you  too  have  a  tongue  !  Can  you  also 
lure  women?  I  think  you  could.  But  keep  it, 
Simon,  keep  it  for  your  wife.  There's  many  a  maid 
would  gladly  take  the  title,  for  you're  a  fine  figure, 
and  I  think  that  you  know  the  way  to  a  woman's 
heart." 

Standing  above  me  (for  I  had  sunk  back  in  my 
chair)  she  caressed  my  cheek  gently  with  her  hand. 
I  was  checked,  but  not  beaten.  My  madness,  as  she 
called  it  (as  must  not  I  also  call  it  ?),  was  still  in  me, 
hot  and  surging.  Hope  was  yet  alive,  for  she  had 
shown  me  tenderness,  and  once  it  had  seemed  as 
though  a  passing  shadow  of  remorse  shot  across  her 
brightness.  Putting  out  my  hands,  I  took  both  of 
hers  again,  and  so  looked  up  in  her  face,  dumbly  be- 
seeching her;  a  smile  quivered  on  her  lips  as  she  shook 
her  head  at  me. 

"  Heaven  keeps  you  for  better  things,"  she  said. 

"  I'd  be  the  judge  of  them  myself,"  I  cried,  and  I 
sought  to  carry  her  hands  to  my  lips. 


Of  Gems  and  Pebbles.  1 1 5 

"  Let  me  go,"  she  said  ;  "  Simon,  you  must  let  me 
go.  Nay,  you  must.  So !  Sit  there,  and  I'll  sit 
opposite  to  you." 

She  did  as  she  said,  seating  herself  over  against  me, 
although  quite  close.  She  looked  me  in  the  face. 
Presently  she  gave  a  little  sigh. 

"Won't  you  leave  me  now?"  she  asked,  with  a 
plaintive  smile. 

I  shook  my  head,  but  made  no  other  answer. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  she  went  on  softly,  "  that  I  came  to 
Hatchstead  ;  I'm  sorry  that  I  brought  you  to  London, 
that  I  met  you  in  the  Lane,  that  I  brought  you  here 
to-day.  I  didn't  guess  your  folly.  I've  lived  with 
players,  and  with  courtiers,  and  with — with  one  other ; 
so  I  didn't  dream  of  such  folly  as  yours.  Yes,  I'm 
sorry." 

"  You  can  give  me  joy  infinitely  greater  than  any 
sorrow  I've  had  by  you,"  said  I,  in  a  low  voice. 

On  this  she  sat  silent  for  a  full  minute,  seeming  to 
study  my  face.  Then  she  looked  to  right  and  left, 
as  though  she  would  fain  have  escaped.  Then  she 
laughed  a  little,  but  grew  grave  again,  saying,  "  I  don't 
know  why  I  laughed,"  and  sighing  heavily.  I  watched 
every  motion  and  change  in  her,  waiting  for  her  to 
speak  again.  At  last  she  spoke. 

"You  won't  be  angry  with  me,  Simon?"  she  asked, 
coaxingly. 

"  Why,  no,"  I  answered,  wondering. 

"  Nor  run  quite  mad,  nor  talk  of  death,  nor  any 
horrors  ?  " 

"  I'll  hear  all  you  say  calmly,"  I  answered. 

She  sat  looking  at  me  in  a  whimsical  distress, 
seeming  to  deprecate  wrath  and  to  pray  my  pardon, 
yet  still  to  hint  amusement  deep-hidden  in  her 
mind.  Then  she  drew  herself  up  and  a  strange 
and  most  pitiful  pride  appeared  in  her  face.  I  did 
not  know  the  meaning  of  it.  Then  she  leant  for- 


n6  Simon  Dale. 

ward  towards  me,  blushing  a  little,  and  whispered  my 
name. 

"  I'm  waiting  to  hear  you,"  said  I ;  my  voice  came 
hard,  stern  and  cold. 

"  You'll  be  cruel  to  me,  I  know  you  will,"  she  cried, 
petulantly. 

"  On  my  life,  no,"  said  I.  "  What  is  it  you  want 
to  say  ?  " 

She  was  like  a  child  who  shows  you  some  loved,  for- 
bidden toy  that  she  should  not  have,  but  prizes  above 
all  her  trifles;  there  was  that  sly  joy,  that  ashamed 
exultation  in  her  face. 

"  I  have  promises,"  she  whispered,  clasping  her 
hands  and  nodding  her  head  at  me.  "Ah,  they  make 
songs  on  me,  and  laugh  at  me,  and  Castlemaine  looks 
at  me  as  though  I  were  the  street-dirt  under  her  feet. 
But  they  shall  see !  Aye,  they  shall  see  that  I  can 
match  them  !  "  She  sprang  to  her  feet  in  reckless 
merriment,  crying,  "  Shall  I  make  a  pretty  countess, 
Simon?"  She  came  near  to  me  and  whispered  with 
a  mysterious  air,  "  Simon,  Simon  !  " 

I  looked  up  at  her  sparkling  eyes. 

"  Simon,  what's  he  whom  you  serve,  whom  you're 
proud  to  serve?  Who  is  he,  I  say?"  And  she  broke 
into  a  laugh  of  triumph. 

But  I,  hearing  her  laugh,  and  finding  my  heart  filled 
with  a  sudden  terror,  spread  my  hands  over  my  eyes 
and  fell  back  heavily  in  my  chair,  like  a  sick  man  or  a 
drunken.  For  now,  indeed,  I  saw  that  my  gem  was 
but  a  pebble.  And  the  echo  of  her  laugh  rang  in  my 
ears. 

"  So  I  can't  come,  Simon,"  I  heard  her  say.  "  You 
see  that  I  can't  come.  No,  no,  I  can't  come; "and 
again  she  laughed. 

I  sat  where  I  was,  hearing  nothing  but  the  echo  of 
her  laugh,  unable  to  think  save  of  the  truth  that  was 
driven  so  cruelly  into  my  mind.  The  first  realising 


Of  Gems  and  Pebbles.  i  1 7 

of  things  that  cannot  be  undone  brings  to  a  young 
man  a  fierce  impotent  resentment ;  that  was  in  my 
heart,  and  with  it  a  sudden  revulsion  from  what  I  had 
desired,  as  intemperate  as  the  desire,  as  cruel,  it  may 
be,  as  the  thing  which  gave  it  birth.  Nell's  laughter 
died  away  and  she  was  silent.  Presently  I  felt  a  hand 
rest  on  my  hands  as  though  seeking  to  convey  sym- 
pathy in  a  grief  but  half  understood.  I  shrank  away, 
moving  my  hands  till  hers  no  longer  touched  them. 
There  are  little  acts,  small  matters  often,  on  which  re- 
morse attends  while  life  lasts.  Even  now  my  heart  is 
sore  that  I  shrank  away  from  her  :  she  was  different 
now  in  nothing  from  what  I  had  known  of  her ;  but  I 
who  had  desired  passionately  now  shunned  her :  the 
thing  had  come  home  to  me,  plain,  close,  in  an  odious 
intimacy.  Yet  I  wish  I  had  not  shrunk  away  ;  before 
I  could  think  I  had  done  it,  and  I  found  no  words : 
better  perhaps  that  I  attempted  none. 

I  looked  up  :  she  was  holding  out  the  hand  before 
her ;  there  was  a  puzzled  smile  on  her  lips. 

"  Does  it  burn,  does  it  prick,  does  it  soil,  Simon  ?  " 
she  asked.  "  See,  touch  it,  touch  it.  It  is  as  it  was, 
isn't  it  ?  "  She  put  it  close  by  my  hand,  waiting  for 
me  to  take  it,  but  I  did  not  take  it.  "As  it  was  when 
you  kissed  it,"  said  she ;  but  still  I  did  not  take  it. 

I  rose  to  my  feet  slowly  and  heavily,  like  a  tired 
man  whose  legs  are  reluctant  to  resume  their  load. 
She  stood  quite  still,  regarding  me  now  with  alarm  and 
wondering  eyes. 

"  It's  nothing,"  I  stammered.  "  Indeed,  it's  noth- 
ing; only  I  hadn't  thought  of  it."  Scarcely  knowing 
what  I  did,  I  began  to  move  towards  the  door.  An 
unreasoning  instinct  impelled  me  to  get  away  from 
her.  Yet  my  gaze  was  drawn  to  her  face ;  I  saw  her 
lips  pouting  and  her  cheek  flushed,  the  brightness  of 
her  eyes  grew  clouded.  She  loved  me  enough  to  be 
hurt  by  me,  if  no  more.  A  pity  seized  me  ;  turning,  I 


i  iS  Simon  Dale* 

fell  on  my  knee,  and,  seizing  the  hand  whose  touch  I 
had  refused,  I  kissed  it. 

"  Ah,  you  kiss  my  hand  now !  "  she  cried,  breaking 
into  smiles  again. 

"  I  kiss  Cydaria's  hand,"  said  I.  "  For  in  truth  I'm 
sorry  for  my  Cydaria." 

"  She  was  no  other  than  I  am,"  she  whispered,  and 
now  with  a  touch  of  shame ;  for  she  saw  that  I  felt 
shame  for  her. 

"  Not  what  is  hurts  us,  but  what  we  know,"  said  I. 
"  Good-bye,  Cydaria,"  and  again  I  kissed  her  hand. 
She  drew  it  away  from  me  and  tossed  her  head,  crying 
angrily,— 

"  I  wish  I  hadn't  told  you." 

"  In  God's  name,  don't  wish  that,"  said  I,  and  drew 
her  gaze  on  me  again  in  surprise.  I  moved  on  my 
way,  the  only  way  my  feet  could  tread.  But  she 
darted  after  me,  and  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm.  I 
looked  at  her  in  amazed  questioning. 

"You'll  come  again,  Simon,  when — ?"  The  smile 
would  not  be  denied  though  it  came  timidly,  afraid 
for  its  welcome  and  distrustful  of  its  right.  "  When 
you're  better,  Simon?" 

I  longed,  with  all  my  heart  I  longed,  to  be  kind  to 
her.  How  could  the  thing  be  to  her  what  it  was  to 
me?  She  could  not  understand  why  I  was  aghast; 
extravagant  despair,  all  in  the  style  of  a  vanquished 
rival,  would  have  been  easy  for  her  to  meet,  to  ridi- 
cule, to  comfort.  I  knew  all  this,  but  I  could  not  find 
the  means  to  affect  it  or  to  cover  my  own  distress. 

"  You'll  come  again  then  ?  "  she  insisted,  pleadingly. 

"  No,"  said  I,  bluntly,  and  cruelly,  with  unwilling 
cruelty. 

At  that  a  sudden  gust  of  passion  seized  her  and 
she  turned  on  me,  denouncing  me  fiercely,  in  terms 
she  took  no  care  to  measure,  for  a  prudish  virtue  that 
for  good  or  evil  was  not  mine,  and  for  a  narrowness 


Of  Gems  and  Pebbles.  1 19 

of  which  my  reason  was  not  guilty,,  I  stood  defence- 
less in  the  storm,  crying  at  the  end  no  more  than,  "  I 
don't  think  thus  of  you." 

"  You  treat  me  as  though  you  thought  thus,"  she 
cried.  Yet  her  manner  softened  and  she  came  across 
to  me,  seeming  now  as  if  she  might  fall  to  weeping. 
But  at  the  instant  the  door  opened  and  the  saucy 
maid  who  had  ushered  me  in  entered,  running  hastily 
to  her  mistress,  in  whose  ears  she  whispered,  nodding 
and  glancing  the  while  at  me. 

"The  King!"  cried  Nell,  and  turning  to  me,  she 
added  hastily,  "  He'd  best  not  find  you  here." 

"  I  ask  no  better  than  to  be  gone,"  said  I. 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  she  cried.  "  We're  not  dis- 
turbed !  The  King's  coming  interrupts  nothing,  forall's 
finished.  Go  then,  go!  out  of  my  sight!"  Her  an- 
ger seemed  to  rise  again,  while  the  serving-girl  stared 
back  astonished,  as  she  passed  out.  But  if  she  went  to 
stay  the  King's  coming,  she  was  too  late.  For  he  was 
in  the  doorway,  the  instant  she  had  passed  through  ; 
he  had  heard  Nell's  last  speech,  and  now  he  showed 
himself,  asking  easily, — • 

"  Who's  the  gentleman  of  whose  society  you  are  so 
ready  to  be  relieved  ? " 

I  turned,  bowing  low.  The  King  arched  his  brows. 
It  may  well  be  that  he  had  had  enough  of  me  already, 
and  that  he  was  not  well  pleased  to  stumble  on  me 
again  and  in  this  place.  But  he  said  nothing,  merely 
turning  his  eyes  to  Nell  in  question. 

"You  know  him,  Sir,"  said  she,  throwing  herself 
into  a  chair. 

"Yes,  I  know  him,"  said  the  King.  "  But  if  I  may 
ask  without  presumption,  what  brings  him  here  ?  " 

Nell  looked  at  the  pair  of  us,  the  King  and  Simon 
Dale,  and  answered  coolly, — 

"  My  invitation." 

"  The   answer   is    all   sufficient,"   bowed  the  King. 


i2o  Simon  Dale* 

"  I'm  before  my  time  then,  for  I  received  a  like  hon- 
our." 

"  No,  he's  after  his,"  said  she.  "  But  as  you  heard, 
Sir,  I  was  urging  him  to  go." 

"  Not  on  my  account,  I  pray,"  said  the  King,  po- 
litely. 

"  No,  on  his.     He's  not  easy  here." 

"Yet  he  outstayed  his  time !  " 

"  We  had  a  matter  of  business  together,  Sir.  He 
came  to  ask  something  of  me,  but  matters  did  not 
prove  to  be  as  he  thought." 

"  Indeed,  you  must  tell  me  more,  or  should  have 
told  me  less.  I'm  of  a  mighty  curious  disposition. 
Won't  Mr.  Dale  sit  ?  "  And  the  King  seated  himself. 

"  I  will  beg  your  Majesty's  permission  to  depart," 
said  I. 

"  All  requests  here,  sir,  lie  with  this  lady  to  grant  or 
to  refuse.  In  this  house  I  am  a  servant — nay,  a 
slave." 

Nell  rose  and  coming  to  the  side  of  the  King's  chair 
stood  there. 

"  Had  things  been  other  than  they  are,  Mr.  Dale 
would  have  asked  me  to  be  his  wife,"  said  she. 

A  silence  followed.     Then  the  King  remarked, — 

"  Had  things  been  other  than  they  are,  Mr.  Dale 
would  have  done  well. ' 

"  And  had  they  been  other  than  they  are,  I  might 
well  have  answered  yes,'1  said  Nell. 

"  Why,  yes,  very  well,"  said  the  King.  "  For  Mr. 
Dale  is,  I'm  very  sure,  a  gentleman  of  spirit  and 
honour,  although  he  seems,  if  I  may  say  so,  just  now 
rather  taciturn." 

"  But  as  matters  are  Mr.  Dale  would  have  no  more 
of  me." 

"  It's  not  for  me,"  said  the  King,  "  to  quarrel  with 
his  resolve,  although  I'm  free  to  marvel  at  it." 

"  And  asks  no  more  of  me  than  leave  to  depart." 


Of  Gems  and  Pebbles.  121 

"  Do  you  find  it  hard,  madame,  to  grant  him  that 
much?" 

She  looked  in  the  King's  face  and  laughed  in  amuse- 
ment, but  whether  at  him  or  me  or  herself  I  cannot 
tell. 

"Why,  yes,  mighty  hard,"  said  she.  "  It's  strange 
how  hard." 

"  By  my  faith,"  said  the  King,  "  I  begin  to  be  glad 
that  Mr.  Dale  asked  no  more.  For  if  it  be  hard  to 
grant  him  this  little  thing,  it  might  have  been  easy  to 
grant  him  more.  Come,  is  it  granted  to  him  ?  " 

"  Let  him  ask  for  it  again,"  said  she,  and  leaving 
the  King  she  came  and  stood  before  me,  raising  her 
eyes  to  mine.  "Would  you  leave  me,  Simon?"  she 
cried. 

"  Yes,  I  would  leave  you,  madame,"  said  I. 

"  To  go  whither  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know." 

"  Yet  the  question  isn't  hard,"  interposed  the  King. 
"  And  the  answer  is — elsewhere." 

"Elsewhere!"  cried  Nell.  "But  what  does  that 
mean,  Sir?" 

"Nay,  I  don't  know  her  name,"  said  the  King. 
"  Nor,  may  be,  does  Mr.  Dale  yet.  But  he'll  learn  and 
so,  I  hope,  shall  I,  if  I  can  be  of  service  to  him." 

"  I'm  in  no  haste  to  learn  it,"  cried  Nell. 

"  Why,  no,"  laughed  the  King. 

She  turned  to  me  again,  holding  out  her  hand  as 
though  she  challenged  me  to  refuse  it. 

"Good-bye,  Simon,"  said  she,  and  she  broke  into  a 
strange  little  laugh  that  seemed  devoid  of  mirth,  and 
to  express  a  railing  mockery  of  herself  and  what  she 
did. 

I  saw  the  King  watching  us  with  attentive  eyes  and 
brows  bent  in  a  frown. 

"  Good-bye,"  said  I.  Looking  into  her  eyes,  I  let 
my  gaze  dwell  long  on  her;  it  dwelt  longer  than  I 


122  Simon  Dale. 

meant,  reluctant  to  take  last  leave  of  old  friends. 
Then  I  kissed  her  hand  and  bowed  very  low  to  the 
King,  who  replied  with  a  good-natured  nod  ;  then 
turning  I  passed  out  of  the  room. 

I  take  it  that  the  change  from  youth  to  manhood, 
and  again  from  full  manhood  to  decline,  comes  upon 
us  gradually,  never  ceasing  but  never  swift,  as  mind 
and  body  alike  are  insensibly  transformed  beneath  the 
assault  of  multitudinous  unperceived  forces  of  matter 
and  of  circumstances  ;  it  is  the  result  we  know  ;  that, 
not  the  process,  is  the  reality  for  us.  We  awake  to 
find  done  what  our  sleepy  brains  missed  in  the  doing, 
and  after  months  or  years  perceive  ourselves  in  a 
second  older  by  all  that  period.  We  are  jogged  by 
the  elbow,  roused  ruthlessly  and  curtly  bidden  to  look 
and  see  how  we  are  changed,  and  wonder,  weep,  or 
smile  as  may  seem  best  to  us  in  face  of  the  metamor- 
phosis. A  moment  of  such  awakening  came  to  me  now  ; 
I  seemed  a  man  different  from  him  who  had,  no  great 
number  of  minutes  before,  hastened  to  the  house,  in- 
spired by  an  insane  hope,  and  aflame  with  a  passion 
that  defied  reason  and  summed  up  life  in  longing. 
The  lackeys  were  there  still,  the  maid's  smile  altered 
only  by  a  fuller  and  more  roguish  insinuation.  On 
me  the  change  had  passed,  and  I  looked  open-eyed 
on  what  I  had  been.  Then  came  a  smile,  close  neigh- 
bour to  a  groan,  and  the  scorn  of  my  old  self  which  is 
the  sad  delirium  wrought  by  moving  time  ;  but  the 
lackey  held  the  door  for  me  and  I  passed  out. 

A  noise  sounded  from  above  as  the  casement  of  the 
window  was  thrown  open.  She  looked  out ;  her 
anger  was  gone,  her  emotion  also  seemed  goneo  She 
stood  there  smiling,  very  kindly  but  with  mockery. 
She  held  in  either  hand  a  flower.  One  she  smelt  and 
held  her  face  long  to  it,  as  though  its  sweetness  kept 
her  senses  willing  prisoners ;  turning  to  the  other, 
she  smelt  it  for  a  short  instant  and  th«n  drew  away, 


AliAIN    HHk     I.AL'l.H    SOINDKI)    ABOVK    MK."  —  PAl.K    )  23. 


Of  Gems  and  Pebbles.  123 

her  face  that  told  every  mood  with  unfailing  aptness 
twisted  into  disappointment  or  disgust.  She  leant 
out  looking  down  on  me  ;  now  behind  her  shoulder  I 
saw  the  King's  black  face,  half  hidden  by  the  hang- 
ings of  the  window.  She  glanced  at  the  first  flower, 
then  at  the  second,  held  up  both  her  hands  for  a  mo- 
ment, turned  for  an  instant  with  a  coquettish  smile 
towards  the  swarthy  face  behind,  then  handed  the  first 
flower  with  a  laugh  into  a  hand  that  was  stretched  out 
for  it,  and  flung  the  second  down  to  me.  As  it 
floated  through  the  air,  the  wind  disengaged  its  loose 
petals  and  they  drifted  away,  some  reaching  ground, 
some  caught  by  gusts  and  carried  away,  circling, 
towards  the  housetops.  The  stalk  fell  by  me,  almost 
naked,  stripped  of  its  bloom.  For  the  second  flower 
was  faded,  and  had  no  sweetness  nor  life  left  in  it. 
Again  her  laugh  sounded  above  me,  and  the  casement 
closed. 

I  bent  and  picked  up  the  stalk.  Was  it  her  own 
mood  she  told  me  in  the  allegory  ?  Or  was  it  the 
mood  she  knew  to  be  in  me  ?  There  had  been  an 
echo  of  sorrow  in  the  laugh,  of  pity,  kindness  and 
regret :  and  the  laugh  that  she  uttered  in  giving  the 
fresh  bloom  to  the  King  had  seemed  pure  derision. 
It  was  my  love,  not  hers,  that  found  its  symbol  in  the 
dying  flower  and  the  stalk  robbed  of  its  glory.  She 
had  said  well,  it  was  as  she  said  ;  I  picked  up  what  she 
flung  and  went  on  my  way,  hugging  my  dead. 

In  this  manner  then,  as  I,  Simon  the  old,  have 
shown,  was  I,  Simon  the  young,  brought  back  to  my 
senses.  It  is  all  very  long  ago. 


CHAPTER  X. 
Je  Viens,  T«  Viens,  II  Vicnt, 

IT  pleased  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  so  to 
do  all  things  that  men  should  heed  his  doing  of  them. 
Even  in  those  days,  and  notwithstanding  certain  trans- 
actions hereinbefore  related,  I  was  not  altogether  a 
fool,  and  I  had  not  been  long  about  him  before  I  de- 
tected this  propensity,  and,  as  I  thought,  the  intention 
underlying  it.  To  set  it  down  boldly  and  plainly,  the 
more  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  was  in  the  eye  of  the 
nation,  the  better  the  nation  accustomed  itself  to  re- 
gard him  as  the  king's  son ;  the  more  it  fell  into  the 
habit  of  counting  him  the  king's  son,  the  less  as- 
tonished and  unwilling  would  it  be,  if  Fate  should 
place  him  on  the  king's  seat.  Where  birth  is  beyond 
reproach,  dignity  may  be  above  display  ;  a  defect  in 
the  first  demands  an  ample  exhibition  of  the  second. 
It  was  a  small  matter,  this  journey  to  Dover,  yet,  that 
he  might  not  go  in  the  train  of  his  father  and  the 
Duke  of  York,  but  make  men  talk  of  his  own  going, 
he  chose  to  start  beforehand  and  alone  ;  lest  even  thus 
he  should  not  win  his  meed  of  notice,  he  set  all  the 
inns  and  all  the  hamlets  on  the  road  a-gossiping  by 
accomplishing  the  journey  from  London  to  Canter- 
bury in  his  coach-and-six  between  sunrise  and  sunset 
of  a  single  day.  To  this  end  it  was  needful  that  the 
coach  should  be  light ;  Lord  Carford,  now  his  Grace's 
inseparable  companion,  alone  sat  with  him,  while  the 
rest  of  us  rode  on  horseback,  and  the  Post  supplied  us 


Jc  Vien*,  Tu  Viens,  II  Vient.  1 25 

with  relays  where  we  were  in  want  of  them.  Thus  we 
went  down  gallantly  and  in  very  high  style,  with  his 
Grace  much  delighted  at  being  told  that  never  had 
King  or  subject  made  such  pace  in  his  travelling  since 
the  memory  of  man  began.  Here  was  reward  enough 
for  all  the  jolting,  the  flogging  of  horses,  and  the  pain 
of  yokels  pressed  unwillingly  into  pushing  the  coach 
with  their  shoulders  through  miry  places. 

As  I  rode,  I  had  many  things  to  think  of.  My  woe 
I  held  at  arm's  length.  Of  what  remained,  the  in- 
timacy between  his  Grace  and  my  Lord  Carford,  who 
were  there  in  the  coach  together,  occupied  my  mind 
most  constantly.  For  by  now  I  had  moved  about  in 
the  world  a  little  and  had  learnt  that  many  counted 
Carford  no  better  than  a  secret  Papist,  that  he  was 
held  in  private  favour,  but  not  honoured  in  public,  by 
the  Duke  of  York,  and  that  communications  passed 
freely  between  him  and  Arlington  by  the  hand  of  the 
Secretary's  good  servant  and  my  good  friend  Mr.  Dar- 
rell.  Therefore  I  wondered  greatly  at  my  lord's  friend- 
ship with  Monmouth,  and  at  his  showing  an  attachment 
to  the  Duke  which,  as  I  had  seen  at  Whitehall,  ap- 
peared to  keep  in  check  even  the  natural  jealousy  and 
resentment  of  a  lover.  But  at  Court  a  man  went 
wrong  if  he  held  a  thing  unlikely  because  there  was 
dishonour  in  it.  There  men  were  not  ashamed  to  be 
spies  themselves,  nor  to  use  their  wives  in  the  same 
office.  There  to  see  no  evil  was  to  shut  your  eyes.  I 
determined  to  keep  mine  open  in  the  interests  of  my 
new  patron,  of  an  older  friend,  and  perhaps  of  myself 
also,  for  Carford's  present  civility  scarcely  masked  his 
dislike. 

We  reached  Canterbury  while  the  light  of  the  long 
summer  evening  still  served,  and  clattered  up  the 
street  in  muddy  bravery.  The  town  was  out  to  see 
his  Grace,  and  his  Grace  was  delighted  to  be  seen  by 
the  town.  If  of  their  courtesy  they  chose  to  treat 


126  Simon  Dale* 

him  as  a  Prince,  he  could  scarcely  refuse  their  homage, 
and  if  he  accepted  it,  it  was  better  to  accept  like  one 
to  the  manner  born  than  awkwardly  ;  yet  I  wondered 
whether  my  lord  made  a  note  in  his  aspiring  brain  of 
all  that  passed,  and  how  soon  the  Duke  of  York  would 
know  that  a  Prince  of  Wales,  coming  to  Canterbury, 
could  have  received  no  greater  honour.  Nay,  and 
they  hailed  him  as  the  champion  of  the  Church,  with 
hits  at  the  Romish  faith  which  my  lord  heard  with 
eyes  downcast  to  the  ground  and  a  rigid  smile  carved 
on  his  face.  It  was  all  a  forecast  of  what  was  one  day 
to  be,  perhaps  to  the  hero  of  it  a  suggestion  of  what 
some  day  might  be.  At  least  he  was  radiant  over  it, 
and  carried  Carford  off  with  him  into  his  apartment  in 
the  merriest  mood.  He  did  not  invite  me  to  join  his 
party,  and  I  was  well  content  to  be  left  to  wander  for 
an  hour  in  the  quiet  close  of  the  great  cathedral.  For 
let  me  say  that  a  young  man  who  has  been  lately 
crossed  in  love  is  in  a  better  mood  for  most  unworldly 
meditation,  than  he  is  likely  to  be  before  or  after. 
And  if  he  would  not  be  taken  too  strictly  at  his  word 
in  all  he  says  to  himself  then,  why,  who  would,  pray, 
and  when  ? 

It  was  not  my  fault,  but  must  be  set  down  to  our 
nature,  that  in  time  my  stomach  cried  out  angrily  at 
my  heart,  and  I  returned  to  the  inn,  seeking  supper. 
His  Grace  was  closeted  with  my  lord,  and  I  turned 
into  the  public-room,  desiring  no  other  company  than 
what  should  lie  on  my  plate.  But  my  host  imme- 
diately made  me  aware  that  I  must  share  my  meal 
and  the  table  with  a  traveller  who  had  recently  ar- 
rived and  ordered  a  repast.  This  gentleman,  concern- 
ing whom  the  host  seemed  in  some  perplexity,  had 
been  informed  that  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  was  in 
the  house,  but  had  shown  neither  excitement  at  the 
news  nor  surprise,  nor,  to  the  host's  great  scandal,  the 
least  desire  for  a  sight  of  his  Grace.  His  men-ser- 


Jc  Viens,  Tu  Viens,  II  Vient.  1 2  7 

vants,  of  whom  he  had  two,  seemed  tongue-tied,  so 
that  the  host  doubted  if  they  had  more  than  a  few 
phrases  of  English  and  set  the  whole  party  down  for 
Frenchmen. 

"  Hasn't  the  gentleman  given  his  name  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No.  He  didn't  offer  it,  and  since  he  flung  down 
money  enough  for  his  entertainment  I  had  no  cause  to 
ask  it." 

"None,"  I  remarked,  "unless  a  man  may  be  al- 
lowed more  curiosity  than  a  beast.  Stir  yourself 
about  supper,"  and  walking  in  I  sa  uted,  with  all  the 
courtesy  at  my  command,  a  young  gentleman  of  ele- 
gant appearance  (so  far  as  I  could  judge  of  him  in 
travellers'  garb)  who  sat  at  the  table.  His  greetings 
equalled  mine  in  politeness,  and  we  fell  into  talk  on 
different  matters,  he  using  the  English  language, 
which  he  spoke  with  remarkable  fluency,  although 
evidently  as  a  foreigner.  His  manner  was  easy  and 
assured,  and  I  took  it  for  no  more  than  an  accident 
that  his  pistol  lay  ready  to  his  hand,  beside  a  small 
case  or  pocket-book  of  leather  on  the  table.  He 
asked  me  my  business,  and  I  told  him  simply  that  I 
was  going  in  the  Duke's  train  to  Dover. 

"Ah,  to  meet  Madame  the  Duchess  of  Orleans?" 
said  he.  "  I  heard  of  her  coming  before  I  left  France. 
Her  visit,  sir,  will  give  great  pleasure  to  the  King  her 
brother." 

"  More,  if  report  speak  true,  than  to  the  Prince  her 
husband,"  said  I,  with  a  laugh.  For  the  talk  at  Court 
was  that  the  Duke  of  Orleans  hated  to  let  his  wife 
out  of  his  sight,  while  she  for  her  part  hated  to  be  in 
it.  Both  had  their  reasons,  I  do  not  doubt. 

"  Perhaps,"  he  answered,  with  a  shrug.     "  But  it's 

hard  to  know  the  truth  in  these  matters.    I  am  myself 

acquainted  with  many  gentlemen  at  the  French  Court, 

and  they  have  much  to  say,  but  I  believe  little  of  it." 

Though  I  might  commend  his  prudence  I  was  not 


128  Simon  Dale* 

encouraged  to  pursue  the  topic,  and,  seeking  a  change 
of  conversation,  I  paid  him  a  compliment  on  his  mas- 
tery of  English,  hazarding  a  suggestion  that  he  must 
have  passed  some  time  in  this  country. 

"  Yes,"  he  replied,  "  I  was  in  London  for  a  year  or 
more  a  little  while  ago." 

"  Your  English  puts  my  French  to  the  blush,"  I 
laughed,  "  else  hospitality  would  bid  me  use  your  lan- 
guage." 

"You  speak  French?"  he  asked.  "I  confess  it  is 
easier  to  me." 

"  Only  a  little,  and  that  learnt  from  merchants,  not 
at  Court."  For  traders  of  all  nations  had  come  from 
time  to  time  to  my  uncle's  house  at  Norwich. 

"  But  I  believe  you  speak  very  well,"  he  insisted, 
politely.  "  Pray  let  me  judge  of  your  skill  for  my- 
self." ' 

I  was  about  to  oblige  him,  when  a  loud  dispute 
arose  outside,  French  ejaculations  mingling  with 
English  oaths.  Then  came  a  scuffle.  With  a  hurried 
apology  the  gentleman  sprang  to  his  feet  and  rushed 
out.  I  went  on  with  my  supper,  supposing  that  his 
servants  had  fallen  into  some  altercation  with  the 
landlord  and  that  the  parties  could  not  make  one 
another  understand.  My  conjecture  was  confirmed 
when  the  traveller  returned,  declaring  that  the  quarrel 
arose  over  the  capacity  of  a  measure  of  wine  and  had 
been  soon  arranged.  But  then,  with  a  little  cry  of 
vexation,  he  "caught  up  the  pocket-book  from  the 
table  and  darted  a  quick  glance  of  suspicion  at  me.  I 
was  more  amazed  than  angry,  and  my  smile  caused 
him  confusion,  for  he  saw  that  I  had  detected  his 
fear.  Thinking  him  punished  enough  for  his  rudeness 
(although  it  might  find  some  excuse  in  the  indifferent 
honesty  of  many  who  frequented  the  roads  in  the 
guise  of  travellers)  I  relieved  him  by  resuming  our 
conversation,  saying  with  a  smile, — 


Je  Viens,  Tu  Viens,  II  Vient*  129 

"  In  truth  my  French  is  a  school-boy's  French.  I 
can  tell  the  parts  of  the  verb  J'aime,  tu  aimes,  il  aime  ; 
it  goes  so  far,  sir,  and  no  farther." 

"  Not  far  in  speech,  though  often  far  enough  in  act," 
he  laughed. 

"  Truly,"  said  I,  with  a  sigh. 

"  Yet  I  swear  you  do  yourself  injustice.  Is  there 
no  more?  " 

"  A  little  more  of  the  same  sort,  sir."  And,  casting 
about  for  another  phrase  with  which  to  humour  him, 
I  took  the  first  that  came  to  my  tongue  ;  leaning  my 
arms  on  the  table  (for  I  had  finished  eating),  I  said 
wjth  a  smile,  "  Well,  what  say  you  to  this?  This  is 
something  to  know,  isn't  it  ?  Je  viens,  tu  viens,  ilvient" 

As  I  live,  he  sprang  to  his  feet  with  a  cry  of  alarm  ! 
His  hand  darted  to  his  breast  where  he  had  stowed 
the  pocket-book  ;  he  tore  it  out  and  examined  the 
fastening  with  furious  haste  and  anxiety.  I  sat  struck 
still  with  wonder ;  the  man  seemed  mad.  He  looked 
at  me  now,  and  his  glance  was  full  of  deepest  sus- 
picion. He  opened  his  mouth  to  speak,  but  words 
seemed  to  fail  him  ;  he  held  out  the  leathern  case 
towards  me.  Strange  as  was  the  question  that  his 
gesture  put  I  could  not  doubt  it. 

"  I  haven't  touched  the  book,"  said  I.  "  Indeed, 
sir,  only  your  visible  agitation  can  gain  your  pardon 
for  the  suggestion." 

"Then  how — how?"  he  muttered. 

"  You  pass  my  understanding,  sir,"  said  I,  in  petu- 
lant amusement.  "  I  say  in  jest '  I  come,  thou  comest, 
he  comes,'  and  the  words  act  on  you  like  abracadabra 
and  the  blackest  of  magic.  You  don't,  I  presume, 
carry  a  hornbook  of  French  in  your  case,  and  if  you 
do  I  haven't  robbed  you  of  it." 

He  was  turning  the  little  case  over  and  over  in  his 
hands,  again  examining  the  clasps  of  it.  His  next 
freak  was  to  snatch  his  pistol  and  look  to  the  priming. 


13°  Simon  Dale* 

I  burst  out  laughing,  for  his  antics  seemed  absurd. 
My  laughter  cooled  him  and  he  made  a  great  effort  to 
regain  his  composure.  But  I  began  to  rally  him. 

"Mayn't  a  man  know  how  to  say  in  French  '  He 
comes '  without  stealing  the  knowledge  from  your 
book,  sir?  "  I  asked.  "  You  do  us  wrong  if  you  think 
that  so  much  is  known  to  nobody  in  England." 

He  glared  at  me  like  a  man  who  hears  a  jest,  but 
cannot  tell  whether  it  conceals  earnest  or  not. 

"  Open  the  case,  sir,"  I  continued,  in  raillery.  "  Make 
sure  all  is  there.  Come,  you  owe  me  that  much." 

To  my  amazement  he  obeyed  me.  He  opened  the 
case  and  searched  through  certain  papers  which  it  con- 
tained ;  at  the  end  he  sighed  as  though  in  relief,  yet 
his  suspicious  air  did  not  leave  him. 

"  Now  perhaps,  sir,"  said  I,  squaring  my  elbows, 
"you'll  explain  the  comedy." 

That  he  could  not  do.  The  very  impossibility  of 
any  explanation  showed  that  I  had,  in  the  most  unex- 
pected fashion,  stumbled  on  some  secret  with  him  even 
as  I  had  before  with  Darrell.  Was  his  secret  DarreH's 
or  his  own,  the  same  or  another?  What  it  was  I 
could  not  tell,  but  for  certain  there  it  was.  He  had 
no  resource  but  to  carry  the  matter  with  a  high  hand, 
and  to  this  he  betook  himself  with  the  readiness  of  his 
nation. 

"  You  ask  an  explanation,  sir  ?  "  he  cried.  "  There's 
nothing  to  explain,  and  if  there  were,  I  give  explana- 
tions when  I  please,  and  not  to  every  fellow  who 
chooses  to  ask  them  of  me." 

"  I  come,  thou  comest,  he  comes — 'tis  a  very  mys- 
terious phrase,"  said  I.  "  I  can't  tell  what  it  means. 
And  if  you  won't  tell  me,  sir,  I  must  ask  others." 

"You'll  be  wiser  to  ask  nobody,"  he  said,  menac- 
ingly. 

"  Nay,  I  shall  be  no  wiser  if  I  ask  nobody,"  I  re- 
torted, with  a  smile. 


Jc  Viens,  Tu  Viens,  II  Vicnt.  131 

"  Yet  you'll  tell  nobody  of  what  has  passed,"  said 
he,  advancing  towards  me  with  the  plain  intention  of 
imposing  his  will  on  me  by  fear,  since  persuasion 
failed.  I  rose  to  my  feet  and  answered,  mimicking 
his  insolent  words, — 

"  I  give  promises,  sir,  when  I  please,  and  not  to 
every  fellow  who  chooses  to  ask  them  of  me." 

"  You  shall  give  me  your  promise  before  you  leave 
this  room,"  he  cried. 

His  voice  had  been  rising  in  passion  and  was  now 
loud  and  fierce.  Whether  the  sound  of  it  had  reached 
the  room  above,  or  whether  the  Duke  and  Carford 
had  grown  weary  of  one  another,  I  do  not  know,  but 
as  the  French  gentleman  uttered  this  last  threat  Car- 
ford  opened  the  door,  stood  aside  to  let  his  Grace 
enter,  and  followed  himself.  As  they  came  in,  we 
were  in  a  most  hostile  attitude ;  for  the  Frenchman's 
pistol  was  in  his  hand,  and  my  hand  had  flown  to  the 
hilt  of  my  sword.  The  Duke  looked  at  us  in  astonish- 
ment. 

"  Why,  what's  this,  gentlemen  ?  "  he  s'aid.  "  Mr. 
Dale,  are  you  at  variance  with  this  gentleman  ?  "  But 
before  I  had  time  to  answer  him,  he  had  stepped  for- 
ward and  seen  the  Frenchman's  face.  "  Why,  here  is 
M.  de  Fontelles  !  "  he  cried,  in  surprise.  "  I  am  very 
pleased  to  see  you,  sir,  again  in  England.  Carford, 
here  is  M.  de  Fontelles.  You  were  acquainted  with 
him  when  he  was  in  the  suite  of  the  French  Ambas- 
sador. You  carry  a  message,  sir  ?  " 

I  listened  keenly  to  all  that  the  Duke's  words  told 
me.  M.  de  Fontelles  bowed  low  but  his  confusion 
was  in  no  way  abated,  and  he  made  no  answer  to  his 
Grace's  question.  The  Duke  turned  to  me,  saying 
with  some  haughtiness, — 

"  This  gentleman  is  a  friend  of  mine,  Mr.  Dale. 
Pray,  why  was  your  hand  on  your  sword  ?  " 

"  Because  the  gentleman's  pistol  was  in  his  hand,  sir." 


*32  Simon  Dale. 

"  You  appear  always  to  be  very  ready  for  a  quarrel, 
Mr.  Dale,"  said  the  Duke,  with  a  glance  at  Carford. 
"  Pray,  what's  the  dispute  ?  " 

"  I'll  tell  your  Grace  the  whole  matter,"  said  I 
readily  enough,  for  I  had  nothing  to  blame  myself 
with. 

"  No,  I  won't  have  it  told,"  cried  M.  de  Fontelles. 

"  It's  my  pleasure  to  hear  it,"  said  the  Duke  coldly. 

"  Well,  sir,  it  was  thus,"  said  I,  with  a  candid  air. 
"  I  protested  to  this  gentleman  that  my  French  was 
sadly  to  seek  ;  he  was  polite  enough  to  assure  me  that 
I  spoke  it  well.  Upon  this  I  owned  to  some  small 
knowledge,  and  for  an  example  I  said  to  him,  'J'aime, 
tu  aimes,  il  aime!  He  received  the  remark,  sir,  with 
the  utmost  amiability." 

"  He  could  do  no  less,"  said  the  Duke,  with  a  smile. 

"  But  he  would  have  it  that  this  didn't  exhaust  my 
treasure  of  learning.  Therefore,  after  leaving  me  for 
a  moment  to  set  straight  a  difference  that  had  arisen 
between  his  servants  and  our  host,  he  returned,  put 
away  a  leathern  case  that  he  had  left  on  the  table 
(concerning  which  indeed  he  seemed  more  uneasy 
than  would  be  counted  courteous  here  in  England, 
seeing  that  I  had  been  all  the  while  alone  in  the  room 
with  it),  and  allowed  me  to  resume  my  exhibition  of 
French-speaking.  To  humour  him  and  to  pass  away 
the  hour  during  which  I  was  deprived  of  the  pleasure 
of  attending  your  Grace " 

"  Yes,  yes,  Mr.  Dale.  Don't  delay  in  order  to  com- 
pliment me,"  said  the  Duke,  smiling  still. 

"  I  leant  across  the  table,  sir,  and  I  made  him  a 
speech  that  sent  him,  to  all  seeming,  half-way  out  of 
his  senses ;  for  he  sprang  up,  seized  his  case,  looked 
at  the  fastenings,  saw  to  the  priming  of  his  pistol,  and 
finally  presumed  to  exact  from  me  a  promise  that  I 
would  consult  nobody  as  to  the  perplexity  into  which 
this  strange  behaviour  of  his  had  flung  me.  To  that  I 


Je  Viens,  Tu  Viens,  II  Vient.  133 

demurred,  and  hence  the  quarrel  with  which  I  regret 
most  humbly  that  your  Grace  should  have  been 
troubled." 

"  I'm  obliged  to  you,  Mr.  Dale.  But  what  was  this 
wonder-working  phrase  ?  " 

"Why,  sir,  just  the  first  that  came  into  my  head. 
I  said  to  the  gentleman — to  M.  de  Fontelles,  as  I 
understand  him  to  be  called — I  said  to  him  softly  and 
gently — Je  viens,  tu  viens " 

The  Duke  seized  me  by  the  arm,  with  a  sudden  air 
of  excitement.  Carford  stepped  forward  and  stood 
beside  him. 

"Je  viens,  tu  viens  .  .  .  Yes!  And  any  more?" 
cried  the  Duke. 

"Yes,  your  Grace,"  I  answered,  again  amazed.  "  I 
completed  what  grammarians  call  the  Single  Number 
by  adding  "It  vient ;  whereupon — but  1  have  told 
you." 

"  II  vient?"  cried  the  Duke  and  Carford,  all  in  a 
breath. 

"  //  vient,"  I  repeated,  thinking  now  that  all  the 
three  had  run  mad.  Carford  screened  his  mouth  with 
his  hand  and  whispered  in  the  Duke's  ear.  The  Duke 
nodded  and  made  some  answer.  Both  seemed  infi- 
nitely stirred  and  interested.  M.  de  Fontelles  had 
stood  in  sullen  silence  by  the  table  while  I  told  the 
story  of  our  quarrel ;  now  his  eyes  were  fixed  intently 
on  the  Duke's  face. 

"  But  why,"  said  I,  "  that  simple  phrase  worked 
such  strange  agitation  in  the  gentleman,  your  Grace's 
wisdom  may  discover.  I  am  at  a  loss." 

Still  Carford  whispered,  and  presently  the  Duke 
said, — 

"  Come,  gentlemen,  you've  fallen  into  a,  foolish 
quarrel  where  no  quarrel  need  have  come.  Pray  be 
friends  again." 

M.  de  Fontelles  drew  himself  up  stiffly. 


*34  Simon  Dale. 

"  I  asked  a  promise  of  that  gentleman  and  he  re- 
fused it  me,"  he  said. 

"  And  I  asked  an  explanation  of  that  gentleman, 
and  he  refused  it  me,"  said  I,  just  as  stiffly. 

"  Well  then,  Mr.  Dale  shall  give  his  promise  to  me. 
Will  that  be  agreeable  to  you,  Mr.  Dale  ?  " 

"  I'm  at  your  Grace's  commands  in  all  things,"  I 
answered,  bowing. 

"And  you'll  tell  nobody  of  M.  de  Fontelles'  agita- 
tion ?  " 

"  If  your  Grace  pleases.  To  say  the  truth,  I  don't 
care  a  fig  for  his  fierceness.  But  the  explanation, 
sir?" 

"  Why,  to  make  all  level,"  answered  the  Duke, 
smiling  and  fixing  his  gaze  upon  the  Frenchman, 
"  M.  de  Fontelles  will  give  his  explanation  to  me." 

"  I  cry  agreed,  your  Grace  !  "  said  I.  "  Come,  let 
him  give  it." 

"To  me,  Mr.  Dale,  not  to  you,"  smiled  the  Duke. 

"  What,  am  I  not  to  hear  why  he  was  so  fierce  with 
me?" 

"  You  don't  care  a  fig  for  his  fierceness,  Mr.  Dale," 
he  reminded  me,  laughing. 

I  saw  that  I  was  caught,  and  had  the  sense  to  show 
no  annoyance,  although  I  must  confess  to  a  very 
lively  curiosity. 

"Your  Grace  wishes  to  be  alone  with  M.  de  Fon- 
telles ?  "  I  asked,  readily  and  deferentially. 

"  For  a  little  while,  if  you'll  give  us  leave,"  he 
answered,  but  he  added  to  Carford,  "  No,  you  needn't 
move,  Carford." 

So  I  made  my  bow  and  left  them,  not  well  pleased, 
for  my  brain  was  on  the  rack  to  discover  what  might 
be  the  secret  which  hung  on  that  mysterious  phrase 
and  which  I  had  so  nearly  surprised  from  M.  de  Fon- 
telles. 

"  The  gist  of  it,"  said  I  to  myself  as  I  turned  to  the 


Je  Vkns,  To  Viens,  n  Vient.  135 

kitchen,  "  lies,  if  I  am  not  mistaken,  in  the  third 
member.  For  when  I  had  said  Je  viens,  tu  viens,  the 
Duke  interrupted  me,  crying,  '  Any  more?' ' 

I  ha.d  made  for  the  kitchen,  since  there  was  no 
other  room  open  to  me,  and  I  found  it  tenanted  by  the 
French  servants  of  M.  de  Fontelles.  Although  peace 
had  been  made  between  them  and  the  host,  they  sat 
in  deep  dejection ;  the  reason  was  plain  to  see  in  two 
empty  glasses  and  an  empty  bottle  that  stood  on  a 
table  between  them.  Kindliness,  aided,  it  may  be, 
by  another  motive,  made  me  resolve  to  cure  their 
despondency. 

"  Gentlemen,"  said  I  in  French,  going  up  to  them, 
"you  do  not  drink  !  " 

They  rose,  bowing,  but  I  took  a  third  chair  be- 
tween them  and  motioned  them  to  be  seated. 

"  We  have  not  the  wherewithal,  sir,"  said  one,  with 
a  wistful  smile. 

"  The  thing  is  mended  as  soon  as  told,"  I  cried,  and, 
calling  the  host,  I  bade  him  bring  three  bottles.  "  A 
man  is  more  at  home  with  his  own  bottle,"  said  I. 

With  the  wine  came  new  gaiety,  and  with  gaiety  a 
flow  of  speech.  M.  de  Fontelles  would  have  admired 
the  fluency  with  which  I  discoursed  with  his  servants, 
they  telling  me  of  travelling  in  their  country,  I  describ- 
ing the  incidents  of  the  road  in  England. 

"  There  are  rogues  enough  on  the  way  in  both  coun- 
tries, I'll  warrant,"  I  laughed.  "  But  perhaps  you 
carry  nothing  of  great  value  and  laugh  at  robbers  ?  " 

"  Our  spoil  would  make  a  robber  a  poor  meal,  sir, 
but  our  master  is  in  a  different  plight." 

"  Ah  !     He  carries  treasure  ?  " 

"  Not  in  money,  sir,"  answered  one.  The  other 
nudged  him,  as  though  to  bid  him  hold  his  tongue. 

"  Come,  fill  your  glasses,"  I  cried,  and  they  obeyed 
very  readily. 

"  Well,  men  have  met  their  death  between  here  and 


136  Simon  Dale* 

London  often  enough  before  now,"  I  pursued,  medi- 
tatively, twisting  my  glass  of  wine  in  my  ringers. 
"  But  with  you  for  his  guard,  M.  de  Fontelles  should 
be  safe  enough." 

"  We're  charged  to  guard  him  with  our  lives  and 
not  leave  him  till  he  comes  to  the  Ambassador's 
house." 

"  But  these  rogues  hunt  sometimes  in  threes  and 
fours,"  said  I.  "  You  might  well  lose  one  of  your 
number." 

"We're  cheap,  sir,"  laughed  one.  "The  King  of 
France  has  many  of  us." 

"  But  if  your  master  were  the  one  ?  " 

"  Even  then  provision  is  made." 

"What?  Could  you  carry  his  message — for  if  his 
treasure  isn't  money,  I  must  set  it  down  as  tidings — 
to  the  Ambassador?  " 

They  looked  at  one  another  rather  doubtfully.  But 
I  was  not  behindhand  in  filling  their  glasses. 

"  Still  we  should  go  on,  even  without  Monsieur" 
said  one. 

"  But  to  what  end  ?  "  I  cried,  in  feigned  derision. 

"  Why,  we  too  have  a  message." 

"  Indeed.     Can  you  carry  the  King's  message  ?  " 

"  None  better,  sir,"  said  the  shorter  of  the  pair, 
with  a  shrewd  twinkle  in  his  eye.  "  For  we  don't 
understand  it." 

"  Is  it  difficult  then?" 

"  Nay,  it's  so  simple  as  to  seem  without  meaning." 

"What,  so  simple— but  your  bottle  is  empty! 
Come,  another?" 

"  Indeed  no,  Monsieur." 

"A  last  bottle  between  us!  I'll  not  be  denied." 
And  I  called  for  a  fourth. 

When  we  were  well  started  on  the  drinking  of  it,  I 
asked  carelessly, — 

"  And  what's  your  message  ?  " 


Jc  Viens,  Tu  Viens,  II  Vient.  137 

But  neither  the  wine  nor  the  negligence  of  my  ques- 
tion had  quite  lulled  their  caution  to  sleep.  They 
shook  their  heads,  and  laughed,  saying, — 

"  We're  forbidden  to  tell  that." 

"  Yet,  if  it  be  so  simple  as  to  have  no  meaning, 
what  harm  in  telling  it  ?  " 

"  But  orders  are  orders,  and  we're  soldiers,"  an- 
swered the  shrewd  short  fellow. 

The  idea  had  been  working  in  my  brain,  growing 
stronger  and  stronger  till  it  reached  conviction.  I 
determined  now  to  put  it  to  the  proof. 

"Tut,"  said  I.  "You  make  a  pretty  secret  of  it, 
and  I  don't  blame  you.  But  I  can  guess  your  riddle. 
Listen.  If  anything  befell  M.  de  Fontelles,  which 
God  forbid " 

"Amen,  amen,"  they  murmured,  with  a  chuckle. 

You  two,  or  if  fate  left  but  one,  that  one,  would 
ride  on  at  his  best  speed  to  London,  and  there  seek 
out  the  Ambassador  of  the  Most  Christian  King. 
Isn't  it  so?" 

"  So  much,  sir,  you  might  guess  from  what  we've 
said." 

"  Aye,  aye,  I  claim  no  powers  of  divination.  Yet 
I'll  guess  a  little  more.  On  being  admitted  to  the 
presence  of  the  Ambassador,  he  would  relate  the  sad 
fate  of  his  master,  and  would  then  deliver  his  message, 
and  that  message  would  be — "  I  drew  my  chair  for- 
ward between  them  and  laid  a  finger  on  the  arm  of 
each.  "That  message,"  said  I,  "  would  be  just  like 
this — and  indeed  it's  very  simple,  and  seems  devoid 
of  all  rational  meaning.  " Je  viens."  They  started. 
"  Tu  viens.'1  They  gaped.  "  II  vient"  I  cried  trium- 
phantly, and  their  chairs  shot  back  as  they  sprang  to 
their  feet,  astonishment  vivid  on  their  faces.  For  me, 
I  sat  there  laughing  in  sheer  delight  at  the  excellence 
of  my  aim  and  the  shrewdness  of  my  penetration. 

What  they  would  have  said,  I  do  not  know.     The 


138  Simon  Dale, 

door  was  flung  open  and  M.  de  Fontelles  appeared. 
He  bowed  coldly  to  me  and  vented  on  his  servants 
the  anger  from  which  he  was  not  yet  free,  calling 
them  drunken  knaves  and  bidding  them  see  to  their 
horses  and  lie  down  in  the  stables,  for  he  must  be  on 
his  way  by  daybreak.  With  covert  glances  at  me 
which  implored  silence  and  received  the  answer  of  a 
reassuring  nod,  they  slunk  away.  I  bowed  to  M.  de 
Fontelles  with  a  merry  smile ;  I  could  not  conceal  my 
amusement  and  did  not  care  how  it  might  puzzle  him. 
I  strode  out  of  the  kitchen  and  made  my  way  up  the 
stairs.  I  had  to  pass  the  Duke's  apartment.  The 
light  still  burned  there,  and  he  and  Carford  were  sit- 
ting at  the  table.  I  put  my  head  in. 

"  If  your  Grace  has  no  need  of  me,  I'll  seek  my 
bed,"  said  I,  mustering  a  yawn. 

"No  need  at  all,"  he  answered.  "Good-night  to 
you,  Simon."  But  then  he  added,  "You'll  keep  your 
promise  to  me  ?  " 

"  Your  Grace  may  depend  on  me." 

"  Though  in  truth,  I  may  tell  you  that  the  whole 
affair  is  nothing  ;  it's  no  more  than  a  matter  of  gallan- 
try—eh, Carford?" 

"  No  more,"  said  my  Lord  Carford. 

"  But  such  matters  are  best  not  talked  of." 

I  bowed  as  he  dismissed  me,  and  pursued  my  way 
to  my  room.  A  matter  of  gallantry  might,  it  seemed, 
be  of  moment  to  the  messengers  of  the  King  of 
France.  I  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  the  mystery, 
but  I  knew  there  was  a  mystery. 

"  And  it  turns,"  said  I  to  myself,  "  on  those  little 
words  "  //  vient."  Who  is  he  ?  Where  comes  he  ? 
And  to  what  end?  Perhaps  I  shall  learn  these  things 
at  Dover." 

There  is  this  to  be  said.  A  man's  heart  aches  less 
when  his  head  is  full.  On  that  night  I  did  not  sigh 
above  half  my  usual  measure. 


CHAPTER  XL 

The  Gentleman  from  Calais* 

GOOD  fortune  and  bad  had  combined  to  make  me 
somewhat  more  of  a  figure  in  the  eyes  of  the  Court 
than  was  warranted  by  my  abilities  or  my  station. 
The  friend  of  Mistress  Gwyn  and  the  favourite  of  the 
Duke  of  Monmouth  (for  this  latter  title  his  Grace's 
signal  kindness  soon  extorted  from  the  amused  and 
the  envious)  was  a  man  whom  great  folk  recognised 
and  to  whom  small  folk  paid  civility.  Lord  Carford 
had  become  again  all  smiles  and  courtesy ;  Darrell, 
who  arrived  in  the  Secretary's  train,  compensated  in 
cordiality  for  what  he  lacked  in  confidence  ;  my  lord 
Arlington  himself  presented  me  in  most  flattering 
terms  to  the  French  King's  envoy,  M.  Colbert  de 
Croissy,  who,  in  his  turn,  greeted  me  with  a  warmth 
and  regarded  me  with  a  curiosity  that  produced  equal 
gratification  and  bewilderment  in  my  mind.  Finally 
the  Duke  of  Monmouth  insisted  on  having  me  with 
him  in  the  Castle,  though  the  greater  part  of  the  gen- 
tlemen attached  to  the  Royal  and  noble  persons  were 
sent  to  lodge  in  the  town  for  want  of  accommodation 
within  the  walls.  My  private  distress,  from  which  I 
recovered  but  slowly,  or,  to  speak  more  properly,  sup- 
pressed with  difficulty,  served  to  prevent  me  from  be- 
coming puffed  up  with  the  conceit  which  this  success 
might  well  have  inspired. 

The  first  part  of  Betty  Nasroth's  prophecy  now 
stood  fulfilled,  aye,  as  I  trusted,  utterly  finished  'and 


140  Simon  Dale* 

accomplished  ;  the  rest  tarried.  I  had  guessed  that 
there  was  a  secret,  what  it  was  remained  unknown  to 
me  and,  as  I  soon  suspected,  to  people  more  important. 
The  interval  before  the  arrival  of  the  Duchess  of  Or- 
leans was  occupied  in  many  councils  and  conferences ; 
at  most  of  them  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  was  present, 
and  he  told  me  no  more  than  all  the  Court  conjectured 
when  he  said  that  Madame  d'Orleans  came  with  a 
project  for  a  new  French  Alliance  and  a  fresh  war 
with  the  Dutch.  But  there  were  conferences  at  which 
he  was  not  present,  nor  the  Duke  of  Buckingham,  but 
only  the  King,  his  brother  (so  soon  as  his  Royal  High- 
ness joined  us  from  London),  the  French  envoy,  and 
Clifford  and  Arlington.  Of  what  passed  at  these  my 
master  knew  nothing,  though  he  feigned  knowledge; 
he  would  be  restless,  when  I,  having  used  my  eyes, 
told  him  that  the  King  had  been  with  M.  Colbert  de 
Croissy  for  two  hours,  and  that  the  Duke  of  York  had 
walked  on  the  wall  above  an  hour  in  earnest  conversa- 
tion with  the  Treasurer.  He  felt  himself  ignored  and 
poured  out  his  indignation  unreservedly  to  Carford. 
Carford  would  frown  and  throw  his  eyes  towards  me, 
as  though  to  ask  if  I  were  to  hear  these  things,  but 
the  Duke  refused  his  suggestion.  Nay,  once  he  said 
in  jest, — 

"  What  I  say  is  as  safe  with  him  as  with  you,  my 
lord,  or  safer." 

I  wondered  to  see  Carford  indignant. 

"  Why  do  you  say  safer,  sir  ?  "  he  asked  haughtily, 
while  the  colour  on  his  cheeks  was  heightened.  "  Is 
any  man's  honour  more  to  be  trusted  than  mine?" 

"  Ah,  man,  I  meant  nothing  against  your  honour, 
but  Simon  here  has  a  discretion  that  heaven  does  not 
give  to  every  one." 

Now  when  I  see  a  man  so  sensitive  to  suspicion  as 
to  find  it  in  every  careless  word,  I  am  set  thinking 
whether  he  may  not  have  some  cause  to  fear  suspi- 


The  Gentleman  from  Calais*  I41 

cion.  Honesty  expects  no  accusation.  Carford's 
readiness  to  repel  a  charge  not  brought  caught  my 
notice,  and  made  me  ponder  more  on  certain  other 
conferences  to  which  also  his  Grace  my  patron  was 
a  stranger.  More  than  once  had  1  found  Arlington  and 
Carford  together,  with  M.  Colbert  in  their  company, 
and  on  the  last  occasion  of  such  an  encounter  Car- 
ford  had  requested  me  not  to  mention  his  whereabouts 
to  the  Duke,  advancing  the  trivial  pretext  that  he 
should  have  been  engaged  on  his  Grace's  business.  His 
Grace  was  not  our  schoolmaster.  But  I  was  deceived, 
most  amiably  deceived,  and  held  my  tongue  as  he 
prayed.  Yet  I  watched  him  close,  and  soon,  had  a 
man  told  me  that  the  Duke  of  York  thought  it  well 
to  maintain  a  friend  of  his  own  in  his  nephew's  confi- 
dence, I  would  have  hazarded  that  friend's  name 
without  fear  of  mistake. 

So  far  the  affair  was  little  to  me,  but  when  Mistress 
Barbara  came  from  London  the  day  before  Madame 
was  to  arrive,  hardly  an  hour  passed  before  I  per- 
ceived that  she  also,  although  she  knew  it  not,  had 
her  part  to  play.  I  cannot  tell  what  reward  they  of- 
fered Carford  for  successful  service  ;  if  a  man  who 
sells  himself  at  a  high  price  be  in  any  way  less  a  vil- 
lain»than  he  who  takes  a  penny,  I  trust  that  the  price 
was  high  ;  for  in  pursuance  of  the  effort  to  obtain 
Monmouth's  confidence  and  an  ascendency  over  him, 
Carford  made  use  of  the  lady  whom  he  had  courted, 
and  as  I  believed  still  courted,  for  his  own  wife.  He 
threw  her  in  Monmouth's  way  by  tricks  too  subtle  for 
her  to  detect,  but  plain  to  an  attentive  observer.  I 
knew  from  her  father  that  lately  he  had  again  begged 
her  hand,  and  that  she  had  listened  with  more  show 
of  favour.  Yet  he  was  the  Duke's  very  humble  ser- 
vant in  all  the  plans  which  that  headstrong  young 
man  now  laid  against  the  lady's  peace  and  honour. 
Is  there  need  to  state  the  scheme  more  plainly  ?  In 


i42  Simon  Dale* 

those  days  a  man  might  rise  high  and  learn  great  se- 
crets, if  he  knew  when  to  shut  his  eyes  and  how  to 
knock  loud  before  he  entered  the  room. 

I  should  have  warned  her.  It  is  true,  but  the  mis- 
chief lay  in  the  fact  that  by  no  means  could  I  induce 
her  to  exchange  a  word  with  me.  She  was  harder  by 
far  to  me  than  she  had  shown  herself  in  London. 
Perhaps  she  had  heard  how  I  had  gone  to  Chelsea  ; 
but  whether  for  good  reason  or  bad,  my  crime  now 
seemed  beyond  pardon.  Stay;  perhaps  my  condition 
was  below  her  notice  ;  or  sin  and  condition  so  worked 
together  that  she  would  have  nothing  of  me,  and  I 
could  do  nothing  but  look  on  with  outward  calm 
and  hidden  sourness  while  the  Duke  plied  her  with 
flatteries  that  soon  grew  to  passionate  avowals,  and 
Carford  paid  deferential  suit  when  his  superior  was 
not  in  the  way.  She  triumphed  in  her  success  as 
girls  will,  blind  to  its  perils  as  girls  are  ;  and  Mon- 
mouth  made  no  secret  of  his  hopes  of  success,  as  he 
sat  between  Carford's  stolid  face  and  my  downcast 
eyes. 

"  She's  the  loveliest  creature  in  the  world,"  he  would 
cry.  "Come,  drink  a  toast  to  her!"  I  drank  si- 
lently, while  Carford  led  him  on  to  unrestrained  boasts 
and  artfully  fanned  his  passion. 

At  last — it  was  the  evening  of  the  day  before  Ma- 
dame was  to  come — I  met  her  where  she  could  not 
avoid  me,  by  the  Constable's  Tower,  and  alone.  I 
took  my  courage  in  my  hands  and  faced  her,  warning 
her  of  her  peril  in  what  delicate  words  I  could  find. 
Alas,  I  made  nothing  of  it.  A  scornful  jest  at  me 
and  my  righteousness  (of  which,  said  she,  all  London 
had  been  talking  a  little  while  back)  was  the  first  shot 
from  her  battery.  The  mention  of  the  Duke's  name 
brought  a  blush  and  a  mischievous  smile,  as  she  an- 
swered,— 

"Shouldn't  I  make  a  fine  Duchess,  Mr.  Dale?  " 


The  Gentleman  from  Calais*  143 

"  Aye,  if  he  made  you  one,"  said  I,  with  gloomy 
bluntness. 

"You  insult  me,  sir,"  she  cried,  and  the  flush  on 
her  face  deepened. 

"  Then  I  do  in  few  words  what  his  Grace  does  in 
many,"  I  retorted. 

I  went  about  it  like  a  dolt,  I  do  not  doubt.  For 
she  flew  out  on  me,  demanding  in  what  esteem  I  held 
her,  and  in  what  her  birth  fell  short  of  Anne  Hyde's 
— "  who  is  now  Duchess  of  York,  and  in  whose  service 
I  have  the  honour  to  be." 

"  Is  that  your  pattern  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Will  the  King 
interpose  for  you  as  he  did  for  the  daughter  of  Lord 
Clarendon?  " 

She  tossed  her  head,  answering, — 

"Perhaps  so  much  interference  will  not  be  needed." 

"  And  does  my  Lord  Carford  share  these  plans  of 
yours?"  I  asked,  with  a  sneer. 

The  question  touched  her ;  she  flushed  again,  but 
gave  way  not  an  inch. 

"  Lord  Carford  has  done  me  much  honour,  as  you 
know,"  said  she,  "but  he  wouldn't  stand  in  my  way 
here." 

"  Indeed  he  doesn't  !  "  I  cried.  "  Nor  in  his 
Grace's !  " 

"  Have  you  done,  sir?  "  said  she,  most  scornfully. 

"  I  have  done,  madame,"  said  I,  and  on  she  swept. 

"Yet  you  shall  come  to  no  harm,"  I  added  to  my- 
self, as  I  watched  her  proud  free  steps  carry  her  away. 
She  also,  it  seemed,  had  her  dream ;  I  hoped  that  no 
more  than  hurt  pride  and  a  heart  for  the  moment  sore 
would  come  of  it.  Yet  if  the  flatteries  of  princes 
pleased,  she  was  to  be  better  pleased  soon,  and  the 
Duke  of  Monmouth  seem  scarcely  higher  to  her  than 
Simon  Dale. 

Then  came  Madame  in  the  morning  from  Dunkirk, 
escorted  by  the  Vice-Admiral,  and  met  above  a  mile 


144  Simon  Dale* 

from  the  coast  by  the  King  in  his  barge ;  the  Duke  of 
York,  Prince  Rupert,  and  my  Duke  (on  whom  I  at- 
tended) accompanying  his  Majesty.  Madame  seemed 
scarcely  as  beautiful  as  I  had  heard,  although  of  a  very 
high  air  and  most  admirable  carriage  and  address, 
and  my  eyes,  prone,  I  must  confess,  to  seek  the  fair- 
est face,  wandered  from  hers  to  a  lady  who  stood  near, 
gifted  with  a  delicate  and  alluring,  yet  childish  beauty, 
who  gazed  on  the  gay  scene  with  innocent  interest 
and  a  fresh  enjoyment.  Madame,  having  embraced 
her  kinsmen,  presented  the  lady  to  his  Majesty  by  the 
name  of  Mademoiselle  Louise  Renee  de  Perrencourt 
de  Qu6rouaille  (the  name  was  much  shortened  by  our 
common  folk  in  later  days)  and  the  King  kissed  her 
hand,  saying  that  he  was  rejoiced  to  see  her — as  in- 
deed he  seemed  to  be,  if  a  man  might  judge  by  the 
time  that  he  spent  in  looking  at  her  and  the  careless- 
ness with  which  he  greeted  the  others  in  attendance 
on  Madame. 

"And  these  are  all  who  come  with  you,  sister?"  he 
asked. 

She  answered  him  clearly,  almost  loudly, — 

"  Except  a  gentleman  who  is  to  join  me  from  Calais 
to-morrow,  with  messages  from  the  King." 

I  heard  no  more,  being  forced  to  move  away  and 
leave  the  royal  group  alone.  I  had  closely  examined 
all  who  came.  For  in  the  presence  of  Madame  I  read 
Je  viens,  in  our  King's,  Tu  viens ;  but  I  saw  none  whose 
coming  would  make  the  tidings  //  vicnt  worthy  of  a 
special  messenger  to  London.  But  there  was  a  gen- 
tleman to  arrive  from  Calais.  I  had  enough  curiosity 
to  ask  M.  le  Comte  d'Albon,  who  (with  his  wife)  ac- 
companied Madame  and  stood  by  me  on  deck  as  we 
returned  to  land,  who  this  gentleman  might  be. 

"  He  is  called  M.  de  Perrencourt,"  the  Count  replied, 
"  and  is  related  remotely  to  the  lady  whom  you  saw 
with  Madame." 


The  Gentleman  from  Calais.  145 

I  was  disappointed,  or  rather  checked.  Was  M.  de 
Perrencourt  so  important  that  they  wrote  //  vient 
about  him  and  sent  the  tidings  to  London  ? 

After  some  time,  when  we  were  already  coming  near 
to  shore,  I  observed  Madame  leave  the  King  and  go 
walking  to  and  fro  on  the  deck  in  company  with  Mon- 
mouth.  He  was  very  merry  and  she  was  very  gra- 
cious ;  I  amused  myself  with  watching  so  handsome 
and  well-matched  a  pair.  I  did  not  wonder  that  my 
Duke  was  in  a  mighty  good  temper,  for,  even  had  she 
been  no  Princess,  her  company  was  such  as  would 
please  a  man's  pride  and  content  his  fancy.  So  I 
leant  against  the  mast,  thinking  it  a  pity  that  they 
troubled  their  pretty  heads  with  Dutch  wars  and  the 
like  tiresome  matters,  and  were  not  content  to  ornament 
the  world,  leaving  its  rule  to  others.  But  presently 
I  saw  the  Duke  point  towards  me,  and  Madame's  glance 
follow  his  finger ;  he  talked  to  her  again  and  both 
laughed.  Then,  just  as  we  came  by  the  landing-stage, 
she  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  as  though  in  command. 
He  laughed  again,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  then  raised 
his  hand  and  beckoned  to  me.  Now  I,  while  watching, 
had  been  most  diligent  in  seeming  not  to  watch,  and 
it  needed  a  second  and  unmistakable  signal  from  his 
Grace,  before  I  hastened  up,  hat  in  hand.  Madame 
was  laughing,  and,  as  I  came,  I  heard  her  say,  "  Yes, 
but  I  will  speak  to  him."  The  Duke,  with  another 
shrug,  bade  me  come  near,  and  in  due  form  presented 
me.  She  gave  me  her  hand  to  kiss,  saying  with  a  smile 
that  showed  her  white  teeth, — 

"  Sir,  I  asked  to  be  shown  the  most  honest  man  in 
Dover,  and  my  cousin  Monmouth  has  brought  you  to 
me." 

I  perceived  that  Monmouth,  seeking  how  to  enter- 
tain her,  had  not  scrupled  to  press  me  into  his  service. 
This  I  could  not  resent,  and  since  I  saw  that  she  was 
not  too  dull  to  be  answered  in  the  spirit  of  her  address, 
I  made  her  a  low  bow  and  said, — 


146  Simon  Dale* 

"  His  Grace,  Madame,  conceived  you  to  mean  in 
Dover  Castle.  The  townsmen,  I  believe,  are  very 
honest." 

"And  you,  though  the  most  honest  in  the  Castle, 
are  not  very  honest  ?  " 

"  I  take  what  I  find,  Madame,"  I  answered. 

"  So  M.  Colbert  tells  me,"  she  said,  with  a  swift 
glance  at  me.  "Yet  it's  not  always  worth  taking." 

"  I  keep  it,  in  case  it  should  become  so,"  I  an- 
swered, for  I  guessed  that  Colbert  had  told  her  of  my 
encounter  with  M.  de  Fontelles  ;  if  that  were  so,  she 
might  have  a  curiosity  to  see  me  without  the  added 
inducement  of  Monmouth's  malicious  stories. 

"  Not  if  it  be  a  secret!  No  man  keeps  that,"  she 
cried. 

"  He  may,  if  he  be  not  in  love,  Madame." 

"But  are  you  that  monster,  Mr.  Dale?"  said  she. 
"  Shame  on  the  ladies  of  my  native  land  !  Yet  I'm 
glad  !  For,  if  you're  not  in  love,  you'll  be  more  ready 
to  serve  me,  perhaps." 

"  Mr.  Dale,  Madame,  is  not  incapable  of  falling  in 
love,"  said  Monmouth,  with  a  bow.  "  Don't  try  his 
virtue  too  much." 

"  He  shall  fall  in  love  then  with  Louise,"  she  cried. 

Monmouth  made  a  grimace  and  the  Duchess  sud- 
denly fell  to  laughing,  as  she  glanced  over  her  shoulder 
towards  the  King,  who  was  busily  engaged  in  conver- 
sation with  Mile,  de  Qu£rouaille. 

"  Indeed,  no  !  "  I  exclaimed,  with  a  fervour  that  I 
had  not  intended.  No  more  of  that  part  of  Betty 
Nasroth's  prophecy  for  me,  and  the  King's  attentions 
were  already  particular.  "  But  if  I  can  serve  your 
Royal  Highness,  I  am  body  and  soul  at  your  service." 

"  Body  and  soul?  "  said  she.  "Ah,  you  mean  sav- 
ing— what  is  it?  Haven't  you  reservations?" 

"  His  Grace  has  spared  me  nothing,"  said  I,  with  a 
reproachful  glance  at  Monmouth. 


The  Gentleman  from  Calais.  147 

"  The  more  told  of  you  the  better  you're  liked, 
Simon,"  said  he,  kindly.  "See,  Madame,  we're  at 
the  landing  and  there's  a  crowd  of  loyal  folk  to  greet 
you." 

"  I  know  the  loyalty  of  the  English  well,"  said  she, 
in  a  low  voice  and  with  a  curling  lip.  "  They  have 
their  reservations  like  Mr.  Dale.  Ah,  you're  speaking, 
Mr.  Dale?" 

"  To  myself,  Madame,"  I  answered,  bowing  pro- 
foundly. She  laughed,  shaking  her  head  at  me,  and 
passed  on.  I  was  glad  she  did  not  press  me,  for  what 
I  had  said  was,  "  Thank  God,"  and  I  might  likely 
enough  have  told  a  lie  if  she  had  put  me  to  the  ques- 
tion. 

That  night  the  King  entertained  his  sister  at  a 
great  banquet  in  the  hall  of  the  Castle,  where  there 
was  much  drinking  of  toasts,  and  much  talk  of  the 
love  that  the  King  of  France  had  for  the  King  of 
England,  and  our  King  for  the  other  King,  and  we 
for  the  French  (whereas  we  hated  them)  and  they  for 
us  (although  they  wasted  no  kindness  on  us);  but  at 
least  every  man  got  as  much  wine  as  he  wanted,  and 
many  of  them  more  than  they  had  fair  occasion  for; 
and  among  these  last  I  must  count  the  Duke  of  Mon- 
mouth.  For  after  the  rest  had  risen  from  table  he 
sat  there  still,  calling  Carford  to  join  him,  and  even 
bidding  me  sit  down  by  his  side.  Carford  seemed  in 
no  haste  to  get  him  away,  although  very  anxious  to 
relieve  me  of  my  post  behind  his  chair,  but  at  last, 
by  dint  of  upbraiding  them  both,  I  prevailed  on  Car- 
ford  to  offer  his  arm  and  the  Duke  to  accept  it,  while 
I  supported  him  on  the  other  side.  Thus  we  set  out 
for  his  Grace's  quarters,  making  a  spectacle  sad 
enough  to  a  moralist,  but  too  ordinary  at  Court  for 
any  remark  to  be  excited  by  it.  Carford  insisted  that 
he  could  take  the  Duke  alone  ;  I  would  not  budge. 
My  lord  grew  offensive,  hinting  of  busybodies  who 


148  Simon  Dale. 

came  between  the  Duke  and  his  friends.  Pushed 
hard,  I  asked  the  Duke  himself  if  I  should  leave  him. 
He  bade  me  stay,  swearing  that  I  was  an  honest  fel- 
low and  no  Papist,  as  were  some  he  knew.  I  saw 
Carford  start ;  his  Grace  saw  nothing  save  the  en- 
trance of  his  chamber,  and  that  not  over-plainly.  But 
we  got  him  in,  and  into  a  seat,  and  the  door  shut. 
Then  he  called  for  more  wine,  and  Carford  at  once 
brought  it  to  him  and  pledged  him  once  and  again, 
Monmouth  drinking  deep. 

"  He's  had  more  than  he  can  carry  already,"  I 
whispered.  Carford  turned  straight  to  the  Duke,  cry- 
ing, "  Mr.  Dale  here  says  that  your  Grace  is  drunk." 
He  made  nothing  by  the  move,  for  the  Duke  answered 
good  humouredly, — 

"  Truly  I  am  drunk,  but  in  the  legs  only,  my  good 

Simon.     My  head  is  clear,  clear  as  daylight,  or  the 

He  looked  round  cunningly,  and  caught  each 

of  us  by  the  arm.     "We're  good   Protestants  here?" 

he  asked  with  a  would-be  shrewd,  wine-muddled  glance. 

"  Sound  and  true,  your  Grace,"  said  Carford.  Then 
he  whispered  to  me,  "  Indeed,  I  think  he's  ill.  Pray 
run  for  the  King's  physician,  Mr.  Dale." 

"  Nay,  he'd  do  well  enough,  if  he  were  alone  with 
me.  If  you  desire  the  physician's  presence,  my  lord, 
he's  easy  to  find." 

I  cared  not  a  jot  for  Carford's  anger,  and  was  deter- 
mined not  to  give  ground.  But  we  had  no  more  time 
for  quarrelling. 

"  I  am  as  loyal — as  loyal  to  my  father  as  any  man 
in  the  kingdom,"  said  the  Duke,  in  maudlin  confi- 
dence. "  But  you  know  what's  afoot  ?  " 

"A  new  war  with  the  Dutch,  I'm  told,  sir,"  said  I. 

"A  fig  for  the  Dutch!  Hush,  we  must  speak 
low,  there  may  be  Papists  about.  There  are  some  in 
the  Castle,  Carford.  Hush,  hush !  Some  say  my 
uncle's  one,  some  say  the  Secretary's  one.  Gentle- 


The  Gentleman  from  Calais.  149 

men,  I — I  say  no  more.  Traitors  have  said  that  my 
father  is — 

Carford  interrupted  him. 

"  Don't  trouble  your  mind  with  these  slanders,  sir," 
he  urged. 

"  I  won't  believe  it.  I'll  stand  by  my  father.  But 
if  the  Duke  of  York — But  I'll  say  no  more."  His 
head  fell  on  his  breast.  But  in  a  moment  he  sprang 
to  his  feet,  crying,  "  But  I'm  a  Protestant.  Yes,  and 
I'm  the  King's  son."  He  caught  Carford  by  the  arm, 
whispering,  "  Not  a  word  of  it.  I'm  ready.  We  know 
what's  afoot.  We're  loyal  to  the  King;  we  must  save 
him.  But  if  we  can't — if  we  can't,  isn't  there  one  who 
— who ?" 

He  lost  his  tongue  for  an  instant.  We  stood  look- 
ing at  him,  till  he  spoke  again.  "One  who  would 
be  a  Protestant  King?" 

He  spoke  the  last  words  loud  and  fiercely  ;  it  was 
the  final  effort,  and  he  sank  back  in  his  chair  in  a 
stupor.  Carford  gave  a  hasty  glance  at  his  face. 

"I'll  go  for  the  physician,"  he  cried.  "His  Grace 
may  need  blood-letting." 

I  stepped  between  him  and  the  door  as  he  advanced. 

"  His  Grace  needs  nothing,"  said  I,  "  except  the 
discretion  of  his  friends.  We've  heard  foolish  words 
that  we  should  not  have  heard  to-night,  my  lord." 

"  I  am  sure  they're  safe  with  you,"  he  answered. 

"  And  with  you  ?  "  I  retorted,  quickly. 

He  drew  himself  up  haughtily. 

"  Stand  aside,  sir,  and  let  me  pass." 

"  Where  are  you  going?  " 

"  To  fetch  the  physician.  I'll  answer  none  of  your 
questions." 

I  could  not  stop  him  without  an  open  brawl,  and 
that  I  would  not  encounter,  for  it  could  lead  only  to 
my  own  expulsion.  Yet  I  was  sure  that  he  would  go 
straight  to  Arlington  and  that  every  word  the  Duke 


15°  Simon  Dale* 

had  spoken  would  be  carried  to  York  and  perhaps  to 
the  King  before  next  morning.  The  King  would  be 
informed,  if  it  were  thought  possible  to  prejudice  him 
against  his  son;  York  at  least  would  be  warned  of  the 
mad  scheme  which  was  in  the  young  Duke's  head.  I 
drew  aside  and  with  a  surly  bow  let  Carford  pass.  He 
returned  my  salutation  with  an  equal  economy  of 
politeness,  and  left  me  alone  with  Monmouth,  who  had 
now  sunk  into  a  heavy  and  uneasy  sleep.  I  roused 
him  and  got  him  to  bed,  glad  to  think  that  his  unwary 
tongue  would  be  silent  for  a  few  hours  at  least.  Yet 
what  he  had  said  brought  me  nearer  to  the  secret  and 
the  mystery.  There  was  indeed  more  afoot  than  the 
war  with  the  Dutch.  There  was,  if  I  mistook  not,  a 
matter  that  touched  the  religion  of  the  King.  Mon- 
mouth, whose  wits  were  sharp  enough,  had  gained 
scent  of  it ;  the  wits  went  out  as  the  wine  went  in, 
and  he  blurted  out  what  he  suspected,  robbing  his 
knowledge  of  all  value  by  betraying  its  possession. 
Our  best  knowledge  lies  in  what  we  are  not  known  to 
know. 

I  repaired,  thoughtful  and  disturbed,  to  my  own 
small  chamber,  next  the  Duke's  ;  but  the  night  was 
fine  and  I  had  no  mind  for  sleep.  I  turned  back 
again  and  made  my  way  on  to  the  wall,  where  it  faces 
towards  the  sea.  The  wind  was  blowing  fresh  and  the 
sound  of  the  waves  filled  my  ears.  No  doubt  the 
same  sound  hid  the  noise  of  my  feet,  for  when  I  came 
to  the  wall,  I  passed  unheeded  by  three  persons  who 
stood  in  a  group  together.  I  knew  all  and  made  haste 
to  pass  by ;  the  man  was  the  King  himself,  the  lady 
on  his  right  was  Mistress  Barbara ;  in  the  third  I 
recognised  Madame's  lady,  Louise  de  Qu£rouaille.  I 
proceeded  some  distance  further  till  I  was  at  the  end 
of  the  wall  nearest  the  sea.  There  I  took  my  stand, 
looking  not  at  the  sea  but  covertly  at  the  little  group. 
Presently  two  of  them  moved  away ;  the  third  curt- 


The  Gentleman  from  Calais,  151 

seyed  low  but  did  not  accompany  them.  When  they 
were  gone,  she  turned  and  leant  on  the  parapet  of  the 
wall  with  clasped  hands.  Drawn  by  some  impulse  I 
moved  towards  her.  She  was  unconscious  of  my 
approach  until  I  came  quite  near  to  her;  then  she 
turned  on  me  a  face  stained  with  tears  and  pale  with 
agitation  and  alarm.  I  stood  before  her,  speechless, 
and  she  found  no  words  in  which  to  address  me.  I 
was  too  proud  to  force  my  company  on  her  and  made 
as  though  to  pass  on  with  a  bow";  but  her  face  arrested 
me. 

"What  ails  you,  Mistress  Barbara?"  I  cried,  im- 
petuously. She  smoothed  her  face  to  composure  as 
she  answered  me, — 

"  Nothing,  sir."  Then  she  added,  carelessly,  "  Un- 
less it  be  that  sometimes  the  King's  conversation  is 
too  free  for  my  liking." 

"  When  you  want  me,  I'm  here,"  I  said,  answering 
not  her  words  but  the  frightened  look  that  there  was 
in  her  eyes. 

For  an  instant  I  seemed  to  see  in  her  an  impulse  to 
trust  me  and  to  lay  bare  what  troubled  her.  The 
feeling  passed  ;  her  face  regained  its  natural  hue  and 
she  said  petulantly, — 

"  Why,  yes,  it  seems  fated  that  you  should  always 
be  there,  Simon ;  yet  Betty  Nasroth  said  nothing  of 
it." 

"  It  may  be  well  for  you  that  I'm  here,"  I  answered 
hotly ;  for  her  scorn  stirred  me  to  say  what  I  should 
have  left  unsaid. 

I  do  not  know  how  she  would  have  answered,  for  at 
the  moment  we  heard  a  shout  from  the  watchman  who 
stood  looking  over  the  sea.  He  hailed  a  boat  that 
came  prancing  over  the  waves  ;  a  light  answered  his 
signal.  Who  came  to  the  Castle  ?  Barbara's  eyes 
and  mine  sought  the  ship ;  we  did  not  know  the 
stranger,  but  he  was  expected  ;  for  a  minute  later 


152  Simon  Dale. 

Darrell  ran  quickly  by  us  with  an  eager  look  on  his 
face;  with  him  was  the  Count  d'Albon  who  had  come 
with  Madame,  and  Depuy  the  Duke  of  York's  servant. 
They  went  by  at  the  top  of  their  speed  and  in  visible 
excitement.  Barbara  forgot  her  anger  and  haughti- 
ness in  fresh,  girlish  interest. 

"  Who  can  it  be  ?  "  she  cried,  coming  so  near  to  me 
that  her  sleeve  touched  mine,  and  leaning  over  the 
wall  towards  where  the  ship's  black  hull  was  to  be  seen 
far  below  in  the  moonlight  by  the  jetty. 

"  Doubtless  it's  the  gentleman  whom  Madame  ex- 
pects," said  I. 

Many  minutes  passed,  but  through  them  Barbara 
and  I  stood  silent  side  by  side.  Then  the  party  came 
back  through  the  gate,  which  had  been  opened  for 
them.  Depuy  walked  first,  carrying  a  small  trunk; 
two  or  three  servants  followed  with  more  luggage  ; 
then  came  Darrell  in  company  with  a  short  man  who 
walked  with  a  bold  and  confident  air.  The  rest  passed 
us,  and  the  last  pair  approached.  Now  Darrell  saw 
Mistress  Barbara  and  doffed  his  hat  to  her.  The  new- 
comer did  the  like  and  more ;  he  halted  immediately 
opposite  to  us  and  looked  curiously  at  her,  sparing  a 
curious  glance  for  me.  I  bowed  ;  she  waited  unmoved 
until  the  gentleman  said  to  Darrell, — 

"  Pray  present  me." 

"  This,  madame,"  said  Darrell,  in  whose  voice  there 
was  a  ring  of  excitement  and  tremulous  agitation,  "  is 
M.  de  Perrencourt,  who  has  the  honour  of  serving 
her  Royal  Highness  the  Duchess.  This  lady,  sir,  is 
Mistress  Barbara  Quinton,  maid  of  honour  to  the 
Duchess  of  York  and  now  in  attendance  on  Madame." 

Barbara  made  a  curtsey,  M.  de  Perrencourt  bowed. 
His  eyes  were  fixed  on  her  face  ;  he  studied  her  openly 
and  fearlessly,  yet  the  regard  was  difficult  to  resent, 
it  was  so  calm,  assured  and  dignified.  It  seemed  be- 
yond challenge,  if  not  beyond  reproach.  I  stood  by 


The  Gentleman  from  Calais.  153 

in  silence,  angry  at  a  scrutiny  so  prolonged,  but  with- 
out title  to  interfere. 

"  I  trust,  madame,  that  we  shall  be  better  ac- 
quainted," he  said  at  last,  ^and  with  a  lingering  look 
at  her  face  passed  on.  I  turned  to  her  ;  she  was  gaz- 
ing after  him  with  eager  eyes.  My  presence  seemed 
forgotten  ;  I  would  not  remind  her  of  it ;  I  turned 
away  in  silence,  and  hastened  after  Darrell  and  his 
companion.  The  curve  of  the  wall  hid  them  from  my 
sight,  but  I  quickened  my  pace  ;  I  gained  on  them, 
for  now  I  heard  their  steps  ahead ;  I  ran  round  the 
next  corner,  for  I  was  ablaze  with  curiosity  to  see 
more  of  this  man,  who  came  at  so  strange  an  hour 
and  yet  was  expected;  who  bore  himself  so  loftily, 
and  yet  was  but  a  gentleman-in-waiting  as  I  was. 
Round  the  next  corner  I  should  come  in  sight  of  him. 
Round  I  went,  and  I  came  plump  into  the  arms  of  my 
good  friend  Darrell,  who  stood  there,  squarely  across 
the  path  ! 

"  Whither  away,  Simon  ?  "  said  he,  coldly. 

I  halted,  stood  still,  looked  him  in  the  face.  He 
met  my  gaze  with  a  calm,  self-controlled  smile. 

"  Why,"  said  I,  "  I'm  on  my  way  to  bed,  Darrell. 
Let  me  pass,  I  beg  you." 

"  A  moment  later  will  serve,"  said  he. 

"  Not  a  moment,"  I  replied  testily  and  caught  him 
by  the  armc  He  was  stiff  as  a  rock,  but  I  put  out  my 
strength,  and  in  another  instant  should  have  thrown 
him  aside.  But  he  cried  in  a  loud  angry  voice, — 

"  By  the  King's  orders,  no  man  is  to  pass  this  way." 

Amazed,  I  fell  back.  But  over  his  head,  some 
twenty  yards  from  us,  I  saw  two  men  embracing  one 
another  warmly.  Nobody  else  was  near;  Darrell's 
eyes  were  fixed  on  me,  and  his  hand  detained  me  in 
an  eager  grasp.  But  I  looked  hard  at  the  pair  there 
ahead  of  me ;  there  was  a  cloud  over  the  moon  now, 
in  a  second  it  passed.  The  next  moment  the  two 


154  Simon  Dale* 

had  turned  their  backs  and  were  walking  off  together. 
Darrell,  seeing  my  fixed  gaze,  turned  also.  His  face 
was  pale,  as  if  with  excitement,  but  he  spoke  in  cool 
level  tones. 

"  It's  only  M.  Colbert  greeting  M.  de  Perrencourt," 
said  he. 

"Ah,  of  course!"  I  cried,  turning  to  him  with  a 
smile.  "But  where  did  M.  Colbert  get  that  Star?" 
For  the  glitter  of  the  decoration  had  caught  my  eye, 
as  it  sparkled  in  the  moonlight. 

There  was  a  pause  before  Darrell  answered.  Then 
he  said, — 

"  The  King  gave  him  his  own  Star  to-night,  in 
compliment  to  Madame." 

And  in  truth  M.  Colbert  wore  that  Star  when  he 
walked  abroad  next  morning,  and  professed  much 
gratitude  for  it  to  the  King.  I  have  wondered  since 
whether  he  should  not  have  thanked  a  humbler  man. 
Had  I  not  seen  the  Star  on  the  breast  of  the  gentle- 
man who  embraced  M.  de  Perrencourt,  should  I  have 
seen  it  on  the  breast  of  M.  Colbert  de  Croissy?  In 
truth  I  doubt  it. 


CHAPTER  XIL 
The  Deference  of  His  Grace  the  Duke* 

CERTAINLY  he  had  some  strange  ways,  this  M.  de 
Perrencourt.  It  was  not  enough  for  him  to  arrive  by 
night,  nor  to  have  his  meeting  with  M.  Colbert  (whose 
Star  Darrell  made  me  observe  most  particularly  next 
morning)  guarded  from  intruding  eyes  by  the  King's 
own  order.  He  showed  a  predilection  for  darkness  and 
was  visible  in  the  daytime  only  in  Madame's  apart- 
ment, or  when  she  went  to  visit  the  King.  The  other 
French  gentlemen  and  ladies  manifested  much  curi- 
osity concerning  the  town  and  neighbourhood,  and 
with  Madame  and  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  at  their 
head  took  part  in  many  pleasant  excursions.  In  a 
day  or  two  the  Queen  also  and  the  Duchess  of  York 
came  from  London,  and  the  doings  grew  more  gay 
and  merry.  But  M.  de  Perrencourt  was  not  to  be 
tempted  ;  no  pastimes,  no  jaunts  allured  him  ;  he  did 
not  put  his  foot  outside  the  walls  of  the  Castle,  and 
was  little  seen  inside  it.  I  myself  did  not  set  eyes 
on  him  for  two  days  after  my  first  sight  of  him ;  but 
after  that  I  beheld  him  fairly  often,  and  the  more  I 
saw  him  the  more  I  wondered.  Of  a  truth  his  retir- 
ing behaviour  was  dictated  by  no  want  of  assuVance 
nor  by  undue  modesty ;  he  was  not  abashed  in  the 
presence  of  the  great  and  bore  himself  as  composedly 
before  the  King  as  in  the  presence  of  a  lackey.  It 
was  plain,  too,  that  he  enjoyed  Madame's  confidence  in 
no  common  degree,  for  when  affairs  of  State  were  dis- 


1 56  Simon  Dale* 

cussed  and  all  withdrew  saving  Madame,  her  brothers 
and  the  Secretary  (even  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  not 
being  admitted),  the  last  we  saw  as  we  made  our  bows 
and  backed  out  of  the  doorway  would  be  M.  de  Per- 
rencourt  standing  in  an  easy  and  unconstrained  atti- 
tude behind  Madame's  chair,  and  manifesting  no  over- 
powering sense  of  the  signal  honour  paid  to  him  by 
the  permission  to  remain.  As  may  be  supposed,  a 
theory  sprang  up  to  account  for  the  curious  regard 
this  gentleman  commanded  ;  it  was  put  about  (some 
said  that  Lord  Arlington  himself  gave  his  authority 
for  the  report)  that  M.  de  Perrencourt  was  legal 
guardian  to  his  cousin  Mile,  de  Querouaille,  and  that 
the  King  had  discovered  special  reasons  for  concil- 
iating the  gentleman  by  every  means,  and  took  as 
much  pains  to  please  him  as  to  gain  favour  with  the 
lady  herself.  Here  was  a  good  reason  for  M.  de 
Perrencourt's  distinguished  treatment  and  no  less 
for  the  composure  and  calm  with  which  M.  de  Per- 
rencourt accepted  it.  To  my  mind,  however,  the 
manner  of  M.  de  Perrencourt's  arrival  and  the  incident 
of  M.  Colbert's  Star  found  scarcely  a  sufficient  ex- 
planation in  this  ingenious  conjecture;  yet  the  story, 
thus  circulated,  was  generally  accepted  and  served 
its  office  of  satisfying  curiosity  and  blunting  question 
well  enough. 

Again  (for  my  curiosity  would  not  be  satisfied,  nor 
the  edge  of  my  questioning  be  turned) — what  had  the 
Duke  of  Monmouth  to  gain  from  M.  de  Perrencourt? 
Something  it  seemed,  or  his  conduct  was  most  myste- 
rious. He  cared  nothing  for  Mile,  de  Qureouaille  and 
I  could  not  suppose  that  the  mere  desire  to  please  his 
father  would  have  weighed  with  him  so  strongly  as  to 
make  him  to  all  appearance  the  humble  servant  of  this 
French  gentleman.  The  thing  was  brought  home  most 
forcibly  to  my  mind  on  the  third  evening  after  M.  de 
Perrencourt's  arrival.  A  private  conference  was  held 


The  Deference  of  His  Grace  the  Duke.          157 

and  lasted  some  hours ;  outside  the  closed  doors  we 
all  paced  to  and  fro,  hearing  nothing,  save  now  and 
then  Madame's  clear  voice,  raised,  as  it  seemed,  in  ex- 
hortation or  persuasion.  The  Duke,  who  was  glad 
enough  to  escape  the  tedium  of  State  affairs  but  at 
the  same  time  visibly  annoyed  at  his  exclusion,  saun- 
tered listlessly  up  and  down,  speaking  to  nobody. 
Perceiving  that  he  did  not  desire  my  company  I  with- 
drew to  a  distance,  and,  having  seated  myself  in  a 
retired  corner,  was  soon  lost  in  consideration  of  my 
own  fortunes  past  and  to  come.  The  hour  grew  late  ; 
the  gentlemen  and  ladies  of  the  Court,  having  offered 
and  accepted  compliments  and  gallantries  till  inven- 
tion and  complaisance  alike  were  exhausted,  dropped 
off  one  by  one,  in  search  of  supper,  wine  or  rest.  I 
sat  on  in  my  corner.  Nothing  was  to  be  heard  save 
the  occasional  voices  of  the  two  musketeers  on  guard 
on  the  steps  leading  from  the  second  story  of  the  keep 
to  the  State  apartments.  I  knew  that  I  must  move 
soon,  for  at  night  the  gate  on  the  stairs  was  shut.  It 
was  another  of  the  peculiar  facts  about  M.  de  Perren- 
court  that  he  alone  of  the  gentlemen-in-waiting  had 
been  lodged  within  the  precincts  of  the  royal  quarters, 
occupying  an  apartment  next  to  the  Duke  of  York, 
who  had  his  sister  Madame  for  his  neighbour  on  the 
other  side.  The  prolonged  conference  was  taking 
place  in  the  King's  Cabinet,  further  along  the  passage. 

Suddenly  I  heard  steps  on  the  stairs,  the  word  of 
the  night  was  asked,  and  Monmouth's  voice  made 
answer  'Saint  Denis';  for  just  now  everything  was 
French  in  compliment  to  Madame.  The  steps  con- 
tinued to  ascend  ;  the  light  in  the  corridor  was  very 
dim,  but  a  moment  later  I  perceived  Monmouth  and 
Carford.  Carford's  arm  was  through  his  Grace's,  and 
he  seemed  to  be  endeavouring  to  restrain  him.  Mon- 
mouth shook  him  off  with  a  laugh  and  an  oath. 

"  I'm  not  going  to  listen,"  he  cried.     "  Why  should 


158  Simon  Dale. 

I  listen  ?  Do  I  want  to  hear  the  King  praying  to  the 
Virgin?" 

"  Silence,  for  God's  sake,  silence,  your  Grace  !  "  im- 
plored Carford. 

"  That's  what  he  does,  isn't  it  ?  He  and  the  Queen's 
Chaplain  and  the " 

"  Pray,  sir  !  " 

"And  our  good  M.  de  Perrencourt,  then?"  He 
burst  into  a  bitter  laugh  as  he  mentioned  the  gentle- 
man's name. 

I  had  heard  more  than  was  meant  for  my  ears,  and 
what  was  enough  (if  I  may  use  a  distinction  drawn  by 
my  old  friend  the  Vicar)  for  my  understanding.  I 
was  in  doubt  whether  to  declare  my  presence  or  not. 
Had  Mon mouth  been  alone,  I  would  have  shown  my- 
self directly,  but  I  did  not  wish  Carford  to  be  aware 
that  I  had  overheard  so  much.  I  sat  still  a  moment 
longer  in  hesitation ;  then  I  uttered  a  long  yawn, 
groaned,  stretched  myself,  rose  to  my  feet,  and  gave  a 
sudden  and  very  obvious  start,  as  I  let  my  eyes  tall  on 
the  Duke. 

"Why,  Simon,"  he  cried,  "what  brings  you  here?" 

"  I  thought  your  Grace  was  in  the  King's  Cabinet," 
I  answered. 

"  But  you  knew  that  I  left  them  some  hours  since." 

"  Yes,  but  having  lost  sight  of  your  Grace,  I  sup- 
posed that  you'd  returned,  and  while  waiting  for  you 
I  fell  asleep." 

My  explanation  abundantly  satisfied  the  Duke  ; 
Carford  maintained  a  wary  silence. 

"  We're  after  other  game  than  conferences  to-night," 
said  Monmouth,  laughing  again.  "Go  down  to  the 
hall  and  wait  there  for  me,  Simon.  My  lord  and  I 
are  going  to  pay  a  visit  to  the  ladies  of  Madame  and 
the  Duchess  of  York." 

I  saw  that  he  was  merry  with  wine ;  Carford  had 
been  drinking  too,  but  he  grew  only  more  glum  and 


The  Deference  of  His  Grace  the  Duke*          159 

malicious  with  his  liquor.  Neither  their  state  nor  the 
hour  seemed  fitted  for  the  visit  the  Duke  spoke  of, 
but  I  was  helpless,  and  with  a  bow  took  my  way  down 
the  stairs  to  the  hall  below,  where  I  sat  down  on  the 
steps  that  led  up  to  one  of  the  loop-holes.  A  great 
chair,  standing  by  the  wall,  served  to  hide  me  from 
observation.  For  a  few  moments  nothing  occurred. 
Then  I  heard  a  loud  burst  of  laughter  from  above. 
Feet  came  running  down  the  steps  into  the  hall,  and 
a  girl  in  a  white  dress  darted  across  the  floor.  I 
heard  her  laugh  and  knew  that  she  was  Barbara  Ouin- 
ton.  An  instant  later  came  Monmouth,  hot  on  her 
heels,  and  imploring  her  in  extravagant  words  not  to 
be  so  cruel  and  heartless  as  to  fly  from  him.  But 
where  was  Carford  ?  I  could  only  suppose  that  my 
lord  had  the  discretion  to  stay  behind  when  the  Duke 
of  Monmouth  desired  to  speak  with  the  lady  whom 
my  lord  sought  for  his  wife. 

In  my  humble  judgment  a  very  fine,  large,  and 
subtle  volume  might  be  composed  on  the  canons  of 
eavesdropping — when  a  man  may  listen,  when  he  may 
not,  and  for  how  long  he  may,  to  what  end,  for  what 
motives,  in  what  causes  and  on  what  provocations. 
It  may  be  that  the  Roman  Divines  who,  as  I  under- 
stand, are  greatly  adept  in  the  science  of  casuistry, 
have  accomplished  already  the  task  I  indicate.  I 
know  not  ;  at  least  I  have  nowhere  encountered  the 
result  of  their  labours.  But  now  I  sat  still  behind 
the  great  chair  and  listened  without  doubt  or  hesita- 
tion. Yet  how  long  I  could  have  controlled  myself  I 
know  not,  for  his  Grace  made  light  of  scruples  that 
night  and  set  bounds  at  naught.  At  first  Mistress 
Barbara  was  merry  with  him,  fencing  and  parrying  in 
confidence  that  he  would  use  no  roughness  nor  an  un- 
due vehemence.  But  on  he  went,  and  presently  a 
note  of  alarm  sounded  in  her  voice,  as  she  prayed  him 
to  suffer  her  to  depart  and  return  to  the  Duchess, 
who  must  have  need  of  her. 


1 60  Simon  Dale* 

"  Nay,  I  won't  let  you  go,  sweet  mistress.  Rather, 
I  can't  let  you  go." 

"  Indeed,  sir,  I  must  go,"  she  said.  "  Come,  I  will 
call  my  Lord  Carford,  to  aid  me  in  persuading  your 
Grace." 

He  laughed  at  the  suggestion  that  a  call  for  Car- 
ford  would  hinder  him. 

"  He  won't  come,"  he  said,  "  and  if  he  came,  he 
would  be  my  ally,  not  yours." 

She  answered  now  haughtily  and  coldly, — 

"Sir,  Lord  Carford  is  a  suitor  for  my  hand.  It  is  in 
your  Grace's  knowledge  that  he  is.'' 

"  But  he  thinks  a  hand  none  the  worse  because  I've 
kissed  it,"  retorted  Monmouth.  "  You  don't  know 
how  amiable  a  husband  you're  to  have.  Mistress  Bar- 
bara." 

I  was  on  my  feet  now,  and,  peering  round  the  chair 
which  hid  me  from  them,  I  could  see  her  standing 
against  the  wall,  with  Monmouth  opposite  to  her. 
He  offered  to  seize  her  hand,  but  she  drew  it  away 
sharply.  With  a  laugh  he  stepped  nearer  to  her.  A 
slight  sound  caught  my  ear,  and,  turning  my  head,  I 
saw  Carford  on  the  lowest  step  of  the  stairs ;  he  was 
looking  at  the  pair  and  a  moment  later  stepped  back- 
wards, till  he  was  almost  hidden  from  my  sight, 
though  I  could  still  make  out  the  shape  of  his  figure. 
A  ciy  of  triumph  from  Monmouth  echoed  low  but  in- 
tense through  the  hall ;  he  had  caught  the  elusive 
hand  and  was  kissing  it  passionately.  Barbara  stood 
still  and  stiff.  The  Duke,  keeping  her  hand  still  in 
his,  said  mockingly,— 

"  You  pretty  fool,  would  you  refuse  fortune?  Hark, 
madame,  I  am  a  king's  son." 

I  saw  no  movement  in  her,  but  the  light  was  dim. 
He  went  on,  lowering  his  voice  a  little,  yet  not  much. 

"  And  I  may  be  a  king ;  stranger  things  have  come 
to  pass.  Wouldn't  you  like  to  be  a  queen?"  He 


The  Deference  of  His  Grace  the  Duke.          161 

laughed  as  he  put  the  question  ;  he  lacked  the  care  or 
the  cunning  to  make  even  a  show  of  honesty. 

"  Let  me  go,"  I  heard  her  whisper  in  a  strained, 
timid  voice. 

"  Well,  for  to-night  you  shall  go,  sweetheart,  but 
not  without  a  kiss,  I  swear." 

She  was  frightened  now  and  sought  to  propitiate 
him,  saying  gently  and  with  attempted  lightness, — 

"  Your  Grace  has  my  hand  prisoner.  You  can  work 
your  will  on  it." 

"  Your  hand  !  I  mean  your  lips  this  time,"  he  cried, 
in  audacious  insolence.  He  came  nearer  to  her,  his 
arm  crept  round  her  waist.  I  had  endured  what  I 
could,  yes,  and  as  long  as  I  could  ;  for  I  was  persuaded 
that  I  could  serve  her  better  by  leaving  her  unaided 
for  the  moment.  But  my  limit  was  reached  ;  I  stepped 
out  from  behind  the  chair.  But  in  an  instant  I  was 
back  again.  Monmouth  had  paused  ;  in  one  hand  he 
held  Barbara's  hand,  the  other  rested  on  her  girdle, 
but  he  turned  his  head  and  looked  at  the  stairs. 
Voices  had  come  from  there  ;  he  had  heard  them  as  I 
had,  as  Barbara  had. 

"  You  can't  pass  out,"  had  come  in  a  blustering 
tone  from  Carford. 

"  Stand  aside,  sir,"  was  the  answer,  in  a  calm,  impera- 
tive voice. 

Carford  hesitated  for  a  single  instant,  then  he  seemed 
to  shrink  away,  making  himself  small  and  leaving  free 
passage  for  a  man  who  came  down  the  steps  and 
walked  confidently  and  briskly  across  the  hall  towards 
where  the  Duke  stood  with  Barbara. 

Above  us,  at  the  top  of  the  stairs,  there  were  the 
sound  of  voices  and  the  tread  of  feet.  The  conference 
was  broken  up  and  the  parties  to  it  were  talking  in  the 
passage  on  their  way  to  regain  their  own  apartments. 
I  paid  no  heed  to  them  ;  my  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
intruder  who  came  so  boldly  and  unabashed  up  to  the 


1 62  Simon  Dale* 

Duke.  I  knew  him  now  ;  he  was  M.  de  Perrencourt, 
Madame's  gentleman. 

Without  wavering  or  pausing,  straight  he  walked. 
Monmouth  seemed  turned  to  stone  ;  I  could  see  his 
face  set  and  rigid,  although  light  failed  me  to  catch 
that  look  in  the  eyes  by  which  you  may  best  know  a 
man's  mood.  Not  a  sound  nor  a  motion  came  from 
Carford.  Barbara  herself  was  stiff  and  still,  her  regard 
bent  on  M.  de  Perrencourt.  He  stood  now  directly 
over  against  her  and  Monmouth ;  it  seemed  long 
before  he  spoke.  Indeed  I  had  looked  for  Mon- 
mouth's  voice  first,  for  an  oath  of  vexation  at  the  in- 
terruption, for  a  curse  on  the  intruder  and  a  haughty 
order  to  him  to  be  gone  and  not  interfere  with  what 
concerned  his  betters.  No  such  word,  nor  any  words, 
issued  from  the  mouth  of  the  Duke.  And  still  M.  de 
Perrencourt  was  silent.  Carford  stole  covertly  from 
the  steps  nearer  to  the  group  until,  gliding  across  the 
hall,  he  was  almost  at  the  Frenchman's  elbow.  Still 
M.  de  Perrencourt  was  silent. 

Slowly  and  reluctantly,  as  though  in  deference  to 
an  order  that  he  loathed  but  dared  not  disobey,  Mon- 
mouth drew  his  arm  away  ;  he  loosed  Barbara's  hand, 
she  drew  back,  leaning  against  the  wall  ;  the  Duke 
stood  with  his  arms  by  his  side,  looking  at  the  man 
who  interrupted  his  sport  and  seemed  to  have  power 
to  control  his  will.  Then  at  last  in  crisp,  curt,  un- 
gracious tones,  M.  de  Perrencourt  spoke. 

"  I  thank  you,  Monsieur  le  Due,"  said  he.  "  I  was 
sure  that  you  would  perceive  your  error  soon.  This  is 
not  the  lady  you  supposed,  this  is  Mistress  Quinton. 
I  desire  to  speak  with  her,  pray  give  me  leave." 

The  King  would  not  have  spoken  in  this  style  to 
his  pampered  son,  and  the  Duke  of  York  himself 
dared  not  have  done  it.  But  no  touch  of  uneasiness 
or  self-distrust  appeared  in  M.  de  Perrencourt's 
smooth,  cutting  speech.  Truly  he  was  high  in 


The  Deference  of  His  Grace  the  Duke.  163 

Madame's  confidence  and  likely  enough  a  great  man 
in  his  o\vn  country,  but,  on  my  life,  I  looked  to  see 
the  hot-tempered  Duke  strike  him  across  the  face. 
Even  I,  who  had  been  about  to  interfere  myself,  by 
some  odd  momentary  turn  of  feeling,  resented  the  in- 
solence with  which  Monmouth  was  assailed.  Would 
he  not  resent  it  much  more  for  himself  ?  No.  For 
an  instant  I  heard  his  quick  breathing,  the  breathing 
of  a  man  who  fights  anger,  holding  it  under  with 
great  labour  and  struggling.  Then  he  spoke ;  in  his 
voice  also  there  was  passion  hard  held. 

"  Here,  sir,  and  everywhere,"  he  said,  "  you  have 
only  to  command  to  be  obeyed."  Slowly  he  bent  his 
head  low,  the  gesture  matching  the  humility  of  his 
words  while  it  emphasised  their  unwillingness. 

The  strange  submission  won  no  praise.  M.  de  Per- 
rencourt  did  not  accord  the  speech  so  much  courtesy 
as  lay  in  an  answer.  His  silent  slight  bow  was  all  his 
acknowledgment ;  he  stood  there  waiting  for  his  com- 
mand to  be  obeyed. 

Monmouth  turned  once  towards  Barbara,  but  his 
eyes  came  back  to  M.  de  Perrencourt.  Carford  ad- 
vanced to  him  and  offered  his  arm.  The  Duke  laid 
his  hand  on  his  friend's  shoulder.  For  a  moment 
they  stood  still  thus,  then  both  bowed  low  to  M.  de 
Perrencourt,  who  answered  with  another  of  his  slight 
inclinations  of  the  head.  They  turned  and  walked 
out  of  the  hall,  the  Duke  seeming  almost  to  stagger 
and  to  lean  on  Carford,  as  though  he  sought  to  steady 
his  steps.  As  they  went  they  passed  within  two  yards 
of  me,  and  I  saw  Monmouth's  face  pale  with  rage. 
With  a  long  indrawing  of  my  breath  I  drew  back  into 
the  shadow  of  my  shelter.  They  passed,  the  hall  was 
empty  save  for  myself  and  the  two  who  stood  there  by 
the  wall. 

I  had  no  thought  now  of  justifying  my  part  of 
eavesdropper.  Scruples  were  drowned  in  excitement ; 


1 64  Simon  Dale. 

keen  interest  bound  me  to  my  place  with  chains  of 
iron.  My  brain  was  full  of  previous  suspicion  thrice 
magnified  ;  all  that  was  mysterious  in  this  man  came 
back  to  me;  the  message  I  had  surprised  at  Canter- 
bury rang  echoing  through  my  head  again  and  again. 
Yet  I  bent  myself  to  the  task  of  listening,  resolute  to 
catch  every  word.  Alas,  my  efforts  were  in  vain ! 
M.  de  Perrencourt  was  of  different  clay  from  his  Grace 
the  Duke.  He  was  indeed  speaking  now,  but  so  low 
and  warily  that  no  more  than  a  gentle  murmur  reached 
my  ears.  Nor  did  his  gestures  aid;  they  were  as  far 
from  Monmouth's  jovial  violence  as  his  tones  from 
the  Duke's  reckless  exclaiming.  He  was  urgent  but 
courteous,  most  insistent  yet  most  deferential.  Mon- 
mouth  claimed  and  challenged,  M.  de  Perrencourt 
seemed  to  beseech  and  woo.  Yet  he  asked  as  though 
none  could  refuse,  and  his  prayer  presumed  a  favour- 
able answer.  Barbara  listened  in  quiet ;  I  could  not 
tell  whether  fear  alone  bound  her,  or  whether  the  soft 
courtly  voice  bred  fascination  also.  I  was  half-mad 
that  I  could  not  hear,  and  had  much  ado  not  to  rush 
out,  unprovoked,  and  defy  the  man  before  whom  my 
master  had  bowed  almost  to  the  ground,  beaten  and 
dismayed. 

At  last  she  spoke  a  few  hurried,  imploring  words. 

"No,  no,"  she  panted.    "  No  ;  pray  leave  me.    No." 

M.  de  Perrencourt  answered  gently  and  beseech- 
ingly,— 

"  Nay,  say  '  not  yet,'  madame." 

They  were  silent  again,  he  seeming  to  regard  her 
intently.  Suddenly  she  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands ;  yet,  dropping  her  hands  almost  immedi- 
ately, she  set  her  eyes  on  his.  I  saw  him  shake  his 
head. 

"  For  to-night  then,  good-night,  fairest  lady,"  said 
he.  He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it  lightly,  bowing 
very  low  and  respectfully,  she  looking  down  at  him  as 


The  Deference  of  His  Grace  the  Duke.  165 

he  stooped.  Then  he  drew  away  from  her,  bowing 
again  and  repeating  again, — 

"  For  to-night,  good-night." 

With  this  he  turned  towards  the  stairs,  crossing  the 
hall  with  the  same  brisk,  confident  tread  that  had 
marked  his  entry.  He  left  her,  but  it  looked  as 
though  she  were  indulged,  not  he  defeated.  At  the 
lowest  step  he  paused,  turned,  bowed  low  again.  This 
time  she  answered  with  a  deep  and  sweeping  curtsey. 
Then  he  was  gone,  and  she  was  leaning  by  the  wall 
again,  her  face  buried  in  her  hands.  I  heard  her  sob, 
and  her  broken  words  reached  me, — 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?     Oh,  what  shall  I  do  ?  " 

At  once  I  stepped  out  from  the  hiding-place  that 
had  shown  me  such  strange  things,  and,  crossing  to 
her,  hat  in  hand,  answered  her  sad,  desolate  question. 

'•  Why,  trust  in  your  friends,  Mistress  Barbara," 
said  I,  cheerily.  "  What  else  can  any  lady  do  ?  " 

"  Simon ! "  she  cried  eagerly,  and,  as  I  thought, 
gladly  ;  for  her  hand  flew  out  to  mine.  "  You  here  ?  " 

"  And  at  your  service  always,"  said  I. 

"  But  have  you  been  here  ?  Where  did  you  come 
from  ?  " 

"  Why,  from  across  the  hall,  behind  the  chair  there," 
I  answered.  "  I've  been  there  a  long  while  back. 
His  Grace  told  me  to  wait  in  the  hall  and  in  the  hall  I 
waited,  though  the  Duke,  having  other  things  to  think 
.of,  forgot  both  his  order  and  his  servant." 

"  Then  you  heard  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  whisper. 

"  All,  I  think,  that  the  Duke  said.  Lord  Carford 
said  nothing.  I  was  about  to  interrupt  his  Grace 
when  the  task  was  better  performed  for  me.  I  think, 
madame,  you  owe  some  thanks  to  M.  de  Perren- 
court." 

"  You  heard  what  he  said  ?  " 

"  The  last  few  words  only,"  I  answered,  regret- 
fully. 


1 66  Simon  Dale. 

She  looked  at  me  for  an  instant,  and  then  said,  with 
a  dreary  little  smile, — 

"  I'm  to  be  grateful  to  M.  de  Perrencourt?  " 

"  I  know  no  other  man  who  could  or  would  have 
rid  you  of  the  Duke  so  finely.  Besides,  he  appeared 
to  treat  you  with  much  courtesy." 

"  Courtesy,  yes  !  "  she  cried,  but  seemed  to  check 
herself.  She  was  still  in  great  agitation,  and  a  mo- 
ment later  she  covered  her  face  and  I  heard  her  sob 
again. 

"Come,  take  heart,"  said  I.  "The  Duke's  a  great 
man,  of  course,  but  no  harm  shall  come  to  you,  Mis- 
tress Barbara.  Your  father  bade  me  have  my  services 
in  readiness  for  you,  and  although  I  didn't  need  his 
order  as  a  spur,  I  may  pray  leave  to  use  it  as  an  ex- 
cuse for  thrusting  myself  on  you." 

"  Indeed,  I — I'm  glad  to  see  you,  Simon.  But  what 
shall  I  do?  Ah,  Heaven,  why  did  I  ever  come  to  this 
place  ?  " 

"That  can  be  mended  by  leaving  it,  madame." 

"But  how?  How  can  I  leave  it?"  she  asked, 
despairingly. 

"  The  Duchess  will  grant  you  leave." 

"  Without  the  King's  consent  ?  " 

"But  won't  the  King  consent?  Madame  will  ask 
for  you  ;  she's  kind." 

"  Madame  won't  ask  for  me ;  nobody  will  ask  for 
me." 

"  Then  if  leave  be  impossible,  we  must  go  without 
leave,  if  you  speak  the  word." 

"  Ah,  you  don't  know,"  she  said,  sadly.  Then  she 
caught  my  hand  again  and  whispered  hurriedly  and 
fearfully:  "  I'm  afraid,  Simon.  I — I  fear  him.  What 
can  I  do?  How  can  I  resist?  They  can  do  what 
they  will  with  me,  what  can  I  do  ?  If  I  weep,  they 
laugh  ;  if  I  try  to  laugh,  they  take  it  for  consent. 
What  can  I  do  ?  " 


The  Deference  of  His  Grace  the  Duke.          167 

There  is  nothing  that  so  binds  a  man  to  a  woman  as 
to  feel  her  hand  seeking  his  in  weakness  and  appeal. 
I  had  thought  that  one  day  so  Barbara's  might  seek 
mine  and  I  should  exult  in  it;  nay,  might  even  let  her 
perceive  my  triumph.  The  thing  I  had  dreamt  of  was 
come,  but  where  was  my  exultation  ?  There  was  a 
choking  in  my  throat  and  I  swallowed  twice  before  I 
contrived  to  answer, — 

"  What  can  w^do?  you  mean,  Mistress  Barbara." 

"  Alas,  alas,"  she  cried,  between  tears  and  laughter, 
"  what  can  we — even  we — do,  Simon  ?  " 

I  noticed  that  she  called  me  Simon,  as  in  the  old 
days  before  my  apostasy  and  great  offence.  I  was 
glad  of  it,  for  if  I  was  to  be  of  service  to  her  we  must 
be  friends.  Suddenly  she  said, — 

"You  know  what  it  means — I  can't  tell  you;  you 
know?'' 

"Aye,  I  know,"  said  I,  "none  better.  But  the 
Duke  sha'n't  have  his  way." 

"The  Duke?  If  it  were  only  the  Duke— Ah  !" 
She  stopped,  a  new  alarm  in  her  eyes.  She  searched 
my  face  eagerly.  Of  deliberate  purpose  I  set  it  to  an 
immutable  stolidity. 

"  Already  he's  very  docile,"  said  I.  "  See  how  M. 
de  Perrencourt  turned  and  twisted  him,  and  sent  him 
off  crestfallen." 

She  laid  her  hand  on  my  arm. 

"  If  I  might  tell  you,"  she  said,  "  a  thing  that  few 
know  here ;  none  but  the  King  and  his  near  kindred 
and  one  or  two  more." 

"  But  how  came  you  to  know  of  it  ? "  I  inter- 
rupted. 

"  I — I  also  came  to  know  it,"  she  murmured. 

"  There  are  many  ways  of  coming  to  know  a  thing," 
said  I.  "  One  is  by  being  told  ;  another,  madame,  is 
by  finding  out.  Certainly  it  was  amazing  how  M.  de 
Perrencourt  dealt  with  his  Grace ;  aye,  and  with  my 


1 68  Simon  Dale* 

Lord  Carford,  who  shrank  out  of  his  path  as  though  he 
had  been — a  king."  I  let  my  tones  give  the  last 
word  full  effect. 

"Simon,"  she  whispered,  in  eagerness  mingled  with 
alarm.  "  Simon,  what  are  you  saying  ?  Silence,  for 
your  life ! " 

"  My  life,  madame,  is  rooted  too  deep  for  a  syllable 
to  tear  it  up.  I  said  only  '  as  though  he  had  been  a 
king.'  Tell  me  why  M.  Colbert  wears  the  King's  Star. 
Was  it  because  somebody  saw  a  gentleman  wearing 
the  King's  Star  embrace  and  kiss  M.  de  Perrencourt 
the  night  that  he  arrived  ?  " 

"  It  was  you  ?" 

"  It  was  I,  madame.  Tell  me  on  whose  account 
three  messengers  went  to  London,  carrying  the  words 
'  //  vient' " 

She  was  hanging  to  my  arm  now,  full  of  eagerness. 

"  And  tell  me  now  what  M.  de  Perrencourt  said  to 
you.  A  plague  on  him,  he  spoke  so  low  that  I 
couldn't  hear ! " 

A  blush  swept  over  her  face  ;  her  eyes,  losing  the 
fire  of  excitement,  dropped  in  confusion  to  the 
ground. 

"  I  can't  tell  you,"  she  murmured. 

"Yet  I  know,"  said  I.  "And  if  you'll  trust  me, 
madame " 

"Ah,  Simon,  you  know  I  trust  you." 

"Yet  you  were  angry  with  me." 

"  Not  angry — I  had  no  right — I  mean  I  had  no 
cause  to  be  angry.  I — I  was  grieved." 

"You  need  be  grieved  no  longer,  madame." 

"  Poor  Simon  !  "  said  she,  very  gently.  I  felt  the 
lightest  pressure  on  my  hand,  the  touch  of  two  slim 
fingers,  speaking  of  sympathy  and  comradeship. 

"  By  God,  I'll  bring  you  safe  out  of  it !  "  I  cried. 

"  But  how,  how?    Simon,  I  fear  that  he  has " 

"The  Duke?" 


The  Deference  of  His  Grace  the  Duke.          169 

"  No,  the — the  other — M.  de  Perrencourt ;  he  has 
set  his  heart  on — on  what  he  told  me." 

"  A  man  may  set  his  heart  on  a  thing  and  yet  not 
win  it,"  said  I,  grimly. 

"  Yes,  a  man — yes,  Simon,  I  know  ;  a  man  may " 

"  Aye,  and  even  a — 

"  Hush,  hush  !  If  you  were  overheard — your  life 
wouldn't  be  safe  if  you  were  overheard." 

"  What  do  I,  care  ?  " 

"  But  I  care !  "  she  cried,  and  added  very  hastily, 
"I'm  selfish.  I  care,  because  I  want  your  help." 

"  You  shall  have  it.  Against  the  Duke  of  Mon- 
mouth,  and  against  the " 

"  Ah,  be  careful." 

I  would  not  be  careful.  My  blood  was  up.  My 
voice  was  loud  and  bold  as  I  gave  to  M.  de  Perren- 
court the  name  that  was  his,  the  name  by  which  the 
frightened  lord  and  the  coward  Duke  knew  him,  the 
name  that  gave  him  entrance  to  those  inmost  secret 
conferences,  and  yet  kept  him  himself  hidden  and 
half  a  prisoner  in  the  Castle.  The  secret  was  no  se- 
cret to  me  now. 

"Against  the  Duke  of  Monmouth,"  said  I,  sturdily, 
"and  also,  if  need  be,  against  the  King  of  France." 

Barbara  caught  at  my  arm  in  alarm.  I  laughed,  till 
I  saw  her  finger  point  warily  over  my  shoulder.  With 
a  start  I  turned  and  saw  a  man  coming  down  the 
steps.  In  the  dim  light  the  bright  Star  gleamed  on 
his  breast.  He  was  M.  Colbert  de  Croissy.  He  stood 
on  the  lowest  step,  peering  at  us  through  the  gloom. 

"  Who  speaks  of  the  King  of  France  here?"  he  said, 
suspiciously. 

"  I,  Simon  Dale,  gentleman  in  waiting  to  the  Duke 
of  Monmouth,  at  your  Excellency's  service,"  I  an- 
swered, stepping  towards  him  and  making  my  bow. 

"What  have  you  to  say  of  my  master?"  he  de- 
manded. 


170  Simon  Dale* 

For  a  moment  I  was  at  a  loss ;  for  although  my 
heart  was  full  of  things  that  I  should  have  taken  much 
pleasure  in  saying  concerning  his  Majesty,  they  were 
none  of  them  acceptable  to  the  ears  of  his  Majesty's 
Envoy.  I  stood,  looking  at  Colbert,  and  my  eyes  fell 
on  the  Star  that  he  wore.  I  knew  that  I  committed 
an  imprudence,  but  for  the  life  of  me  I  could  not  with- 
stand the  temptation.  I  made  another  bow,  and, 
smiling  easily,  answered  M.  Colbert. 

"  I  was  remarking,  sir,"  said  I,  "  that  the  compliment 
paid  to  you  by  the  King  of  England  in  bestowing  on 
you  the  Star  from  his  Majesty's  own  breast,  could  not 
fail  to  cause  much  gratification  to  the  King  of  France." 

He  looked  me  hard  in  the  eyes,  yet  his  eyes  fell  to 
the  ground  before  mine.  I  warrant  he  took  nothing 
by  his  searching  glance  and  did  well  to  give  up  the 
conflict.  Without  a  word  and  with  a  stiff  little  bow, 
he  passed  on  his  way  to  the  hall.  The  moment  he 
was  gone,  Barbara  was  by  me.  Her  face  was  alight 
with  merriment. 

"  Oh,  Simon,  Simon  !  "  she  whispered,  reprovingly. 
"  But  I  love  you  for  it !  "  And  she  was  gone  up  the 
stairs  like  a  flitting  moonbeam. 

Upon  this  I,  having  my  head  full  and  to  spare  of 
many  matters,  and  my  heart  beating  quick  with  more 
than  one  emotion,  thought  my  bed  the  best  and  safest 
place  for  me,  and  repaired  to  it  without  delay. 

"  But  I'll  have  some  conversation  with  M.de  Perren- 
court  to-morrow,"  said  I,  as  I  turned  on  my  pillow  and 
sought  to  sleep. 


CHAPTER  XIII. 
The  Meed  of  Curiosity. 

THE  next  morning  my  exaltation  had  gone.  I 
woke  a  prey  to  despondency  and  sickness  of  soul. 
Not  only  did  difficulty  loom  large  and  failure  seem  in- 
evitable, but  a  disgust  for  all  that  surrounded  me 
seized  on  my  mind,  displacing  the  zest  of  adventure 
and  the  excitement  of  enterprise.  But  let  me  not  set 
my  virtue  too  high.  It  is  better  to  be  plain.  Old 
maxims  of  morality  and  a  standard  of  right  acknowl- 
edged by  all  but  observed  by  none  have  little  power 
over  a  young  man's  hot  blood  ;  to  be  stirred  to  indig- 
nation, he  must  see  the  wrong  threaten  one  he  re- 
spects, touch  one  he  loves,  or  menace  his  own  honour 
and  pride.  I  had  supported  the  scandals  of  this  Court, 
of  which  I  made  a  humble  part,  with  shrugs,  smiles, 
and  acid  jests ;  I  had  felt  no  dislike  for  the  chief 
actors  and  no  horror  at  the  things  they  did  or  at- 
tempted ;  nay,  for  one  of  them,  who  might  seem  to 
sum  up  in  her  own  person  the  worst  of  all  that  was  to 
be  urged  against  King  and  Court,  I  had  cherished  a 
desperate  love  that  bred  even  in  death  an  obstinate 
and  longing  memory.  Now  a  change  had  come  over 
me ;  I  seemed  to  see  no  longer  through  my  own  care- 
less eyes  but  with  the  shamed  and  terrified  vision  of 
the  girl  who,  cast  into  this  furnace,  caught  at  my  hand 
as  offering  her  the  sole  chance  to  pass  unscathed 
through  the  fire.  They  were  using  her  in  their 
schemes  ;  she  was  to  be  sacrificed.  First  she  had  been 
chosen  as  the  lure  with  which  to  draw  forth  Mon- 


172  Simon  Dale* 

mouth's  ambitions  from  their  lair  and  reveal  them  to 
the  spying  eyes  of  York  and  his  tool  Carford  ;  if  that 
plan  were  changed  now,  she  would  be  no  better  for 
the  change.  The  King  would  and  could  refuse  this 
M.  de  Perrencourt  (I  laughed  bitterly  as  I  muttered 
his  name)  nothing,  however  great ;  without  a  thought 
he  would  fling  the  girl  to  him,  if  the  all-powerful 
finger  were  raised  to  ask  for  her.  Charles  would  think 
himself  well  paid  by  his  brother  king's  complaisance 
towards  his  own  inclination.  Doubtless  there  were 
great  bargains  of  policy  a-making  here  in  the  Castle, 
and  the  nature  of  them  I  made  shift  to  guess.  What 
was  it  to  throw  in  a  trifle  on  either  side,  barter  Bar- 
bara Quinton  against  the  French  lady,  and  content 
two  princes  at  a  price  so  low  as  the  dishonour  of  two 
ladies  ?  That  was  the  game  ;  otherwise  whence  came 
M.  de  Perrencourt's  court  and  Monmouth's deference? 
The  King  saw  eye  to  eye  with  M.  de  Perrencourt,  and 
the  King's  son  did  not  venture  to  thwart  him.  What 
matter  that  men  spoke  of  other  loves  which  the 
French  King  had  ?  The  gallants  of  Paris  might  think 
us  in  England  rude  and  ignorant,  but  at  least  we  had 
learnt  that  a  large  heart  was  a  prerogative  of  royalty 
which  even  the  Parliament  dared  not  question.  With 
a  new  loathing  I  loathed  it  all,  for  it  seemed  now  to 
lay  aside  its  trappings  of  pomp  and  brilliancy,  of  jest 
and  wit,  and  display  itself  before  me  in  ugly  naked- 
ness, all  unashamed.  In  sudden  frenzy  I  sat  up  in  my 
bed,  crying,  "  Heaven  will  find  a  way  ! "  For  surely 
heaven  could  find  one,  where  the  devil  found  so 
many !  Ah,  righteous  Avert  thou,  Simon  Dale,  so 
soon  as  unrighteousness  hurt  thee  !  But  Phineas  Tate 
might  have  preached  until  the  end  of  time. 

Earlier  than  usual  by  an  hour  Jonah  Wall  came  up 
from  the  town,  where  he  was  lodged,  but  he  found  me 
up  and  dressed,  eager  to  act,  ready  for  what  might 
chance.  I  had  seen  little  of  the  fellow  lately,  calling 


The  Meed  of  Curiosity.  1 73 

on  him  for  necessary  services  only  and  ridding  myself 
of  his  sombre  company  as  quickly  as  I  could.  Yet  I 
looked  on  him  to-day  with  more  consideration  ;  his 
was  a  repulsive  form  of  righteousness,  grim  and 
gloomy,  but  it  was  righteousness,  or  seemed  such  to 
me  against  the  background  of  iniquity  which  threw 
it  up  in  strong  relief.  I  spoke  to  him  kindly,  but, 
taking  no  heed  of  my  advances,  he  came  straight  up 
to  me  and  said  brusquely,  "The  woman  who  came  to 
your  lodging  in  London  is  here  in  Dover.  She  bids 
you  be  silent  and  come  quickly.  I  can  lead  you." 

I  started  and  stared  at  him.  I  had  set  "  Finis  "  to 
that  chapter ;  was  fate  minded  to  overrule  me  and 
write  more  ?  Strange  also  that  Jonah  Wall  should 
play  Mercury  ! 

"She  here  in  Dover?  For  what?"  I  asked,  as 
calmly  as  I  could. 

"  I  don't  doubt  for  sin,"  he  answered,  uncompromis- 
ingly. 

"  Yet  you  can  lead  me  to  her  house  ?  "  said  I,  with  a 
smile. 

"  I  can,"  said  he,  in  sour  disregard  of  my  hinted 
banter. 

"  I  won't  go,"  I  declared. 

"  The  matter  concerns  you,  she  said,  and  might 
concern  another." 

It  was  early,  the  Court  would  not  be  moving  for 
two  hours  yet.  I  could  go  and  come,  and  thereby 
lose  no  opportunity.  Curiosity  led  me  on  and  with  it 
the  attraction  which  still  draws  us  to  those  we  have 
loved,  though  the  love  be  gone  and  more  pain  than 
pleasure  wait  on  our  visiting.  In  ten  minutes  I  was 
following  Jonah  down  the  cliff  and  plunged  thence 
into  a  narrow  street  that  ran  curling  and  curving  to- 
wards the  sea.  Jonah  held  on  quickly  and  without 
hesitation,  until  we  reached  a  confined  alley  and  came 
to  a  halt  before  a  mean  house. 


174  Simon  Dale* 

"  She's  here,"  said  Jonah,  pointing  to  the  door  and 
twisting  his  face  as  though  he  were  swallowing  some- 
thing nauseous. 

I  could  not  doubt  of  her  presence,  for  I  heard  her 
voice  singing  gaily  from  within.  My  heart  beat 
quick  and  I  had  above  half  a  mind  not  to  enter.  But 
she  had  seen  us  and  herself  flung  the  door  open  wide. 
She  lodged  on  the  ground  floor,  and  in  obedience  to 
her  beckoning  finger  I  entered  a  small  room.  Lodg- 
ing was. hard  to  be  had  in  Dover  now  and  the  apart- 
ment served  her  (as  the  bed,  carelessly  covered  with 
a  curtain,  showed)  for  sleeping  and  living.  I  did  not 
notice  what  became  of  Jonah,  but  sat  down,  puzzled 
and  awkward,  in  a  crazy  chair. 

"What  brings  you  here?"  I  blurted  out,  fixing 
my  eyes  on  her,  as  she  stood  opposite  to  me,  smiling 
and  swaying  to  and  fro  a  little,  with  her  hands  on  her 
hips. 

"  Even  what  brings  you.  My  business,"  she  an- 
swered. "  If  you  ask  more,  the  King's  invitation. 
Does  that  grieve  you,  Simon?" 

"  No,  madame,"  said  I. 

"  A  little,  still  a  little,  Simon  ?  Be  consoled  !  The 
King  invited  me,  but  he  hasn't  come  to  see  me.  There 
lies  my  business.  Why  hasn't  he  come  to  see  me  ? 
I  hear  certain  things,  but  my  eyes,  though  they  are 
counted  good  if  not  large,  can't  pierce  the  walls  of  the 
Castle  yonder,  and  my  poor  feet  aren't  fit  to  pass  its 
threshold." 

"  You  needn't  grieve  for  that,"  said  I,  sullenly. 

"Yet  some  things  I  know.  As  that  a  French  lady 
is  there.  Of  what  appearance  is  she,  Simon  ?  " 

"  She  is  very  pretty,  so  far  as  I've  looked  at  her." 

"Ah,  and  you've  a  discriminating  glance,  haven't 
you?  Will  she  stay  long  ?" 

"They  say  Madame  will  be  here  for  ten  or  fourteen 
days  yet." 


The  Meed  of  Curiosity.  i?5 

"  And  the  French  lady  goes  when  Madame  goes  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  as  to  that." 

"  Why,  nor  I  neither."  She  paused  an  instant. 
"  You  don't  love  Lord  Carford  ?  "  Her  question  came 
abruptly  and  unlooked  for. 

"  I  don't  know  your  meaning."  What  concern  had 
Carford  with  the  French  lady  ? 

"  I  think  you  are  in  the  way  to  learn  it.  Love 
makes  men  quick,  doesn't  it  ?  Yes,  since  you  ask 
(your  eyes  asked),  why,  I'll  confess  that  I'm  a  little 
sorry  that  you  fall  in  love  again.  But  that  by  the 
way.  Simon,  neither  do  I  love  this  French  lady." 

Had  it  not  been  for  that  morning's  mood  of  mine, 
she  would  have  won  on  me  again  and  all  my  resolu- 
tions gone  for  naught.  But  she,  not  knowing  the 
working  of  my  mind,  took  no  pains  to  hide  or  to 
soften  what  repelled  me  in  her.  I  had  seen  it  before 
and  yet  loved  ;  to  her  it  would  seem  strange  that  be- 
cause a  man  saw,  he  should  not  love.  I  found  myself 
sorry  for  her  with  a  new  and  pitiful  grief,  but  passion 
did  not  rise  in  me.  And  concerning  my  pity  I  held 
my  tongue  ;  she  would  have  only  wonder  and  mockery 
for  it.  But  I  think  that  she  was  vexed  to  see  me  so 
unmoved  ;  it  irks  a  woman  to  lose  a  man,  however  little 
she  may  have  prized  him  when  he  was  her  own.  Nor 
do  I  mean  to  say  that  we  are  different  from  their  sex 
in  that  ;  it  is,  I  take  it,  nature  in  woman  and  man  alike. 

"  At  least  we're  friends,  Simon,"  she  said,  with  a 
laugh.  "And  at  least  we're  Protestants."  She 
laughed  again.  I  looked  up  with  a  questioning 
glance.  "  And  at  least  we  both  hate  the  French,"  she 
continued. 

"  It's  true  ;  I  have  no  love  for  them.  What  then  ? 
What  can  we  do?  " 

She  looked  round  cautiously,  and,  coming  a  little 
nearer  to  me,  whispered, — 

"  Late  last  night   I  had  a  visitor,  one  who  doesn't 


176  Simon  Dale. 

love  me  greatly.  What  does  that  matter?  We  row 
now  in  the  same  boat.  I  speak  of  the  Duke  of  Buck- 
ingham." 

"  He  is  reconciled  to  my  Lord  Arlington  by  Ma- 
dame's  good  offices,"  said  I.  For  so  the  story  ran  in 
the  Castle. 

"  Why,  yes,  he's  reconciled  to  Arlington  as  the  dog 
to  the  cat  when  their  master  is  by.  Now  there's  a 
thing  that  the  Duke  suspects  ;  and  there's  another 
thing  that  he  knows.  He  suspects  that  this  treaty 
touches  more  than  war  with  the  Dutch  ;  though  that 
I  hate,  for  war  swallows  the  King's  money  like  a  well." 

"  Some  passes  the  mouth  of  the  well,  if  report  speaks 
true,"  I  observed. 

"  Peace,  peace  !     Simon,  the  treaty  touches  more." 

"A  man  need  not  be  duke  nor  minister  to  suspect 
that,"  said  I. 

"Ah,  you  suspect?  The  King's  religion?"  she 
whispered. 

I  nodded  ;  the  secret  was  no  surprise  to  me,  though 
I  had  not  known  whether  Buckingham  were  in  it. 

"And  what  does  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  know?  " 
I  asked. 

"  Why,  that  the  King  sometimes  listens  to  a  wo- 
man's counsel,"  said  she,  nodding  her  head  and  smil- 
ing very  wisely. 

"  Prodigious  sagacity  !  "  I  cried.  "  You  told  him 
that,  may  be?  " 

"  Indeed  he  had  learnt  it  before  my  day,  Master 
Simon.  Therefore,  should  the  King  turn  Catholic,  he 
will  be  a  better  Catholic  for  the  society  of  a  Catholic 
lady.  Now  this  Madame — how  do  you  name  her?" 

"Mademoiselle  de  Que>ouaille?  " 

"Aye.  She  is  a  most  devout  Catholic.  Indeed  her 
devotion  to  her  religion  knows  no  bounds.  It's  like 
mine  to  the  King.  Don't  frown,  Simon.  Loyalty  is 
a  virtue." 


The  Meed  of  Curiosity,  177 

"  And  piety  also,  by  the  same  rule  and  in  the  same 
unstinted  measure?"  I  asked,  bitterly. 

"  Beyond  doubt,  sir.  But  the  French  King  has  sent 
word  from  Calais " 

"  Oh,  from  Calais !  The  Duke  revealed  that  to 
you  ? "  I  asked,  with  a  smile  I  could  not  smother. 
There  was  a  limit  then  to  the  Duke's  confidence  in  his 
ally;  for  the  Duke  had  been  at  Paris  and  could  be  no 
stranger  to  M.  de  Perrencourt. 

"  Yes,  he  told  me  all.  The  King  of  France  has  sent 
word  from  Calais,  where  he  awaits  the  signing  of  the 
treaty,  that  the  loss  of  this  Madame  Querouaille  would 
rob  his  Court  of  beauty  and  he  cannot  be  so  bereft. 
And  Madame,  the  Duke  says,  swears  she  can't  be 
robbed  of  her  fairest  Maid  of  Honour  ('tis  a  good 
name  that,  on  my  life)  and  left  desolate.  But  Madame 
has  seen  one  who  might  make  up  the  loss,  and  the 
King  of  France,  having  studied  the  lady's  picture, 
thinks  the  same.  In  fine,  Simon,  our  King  feels  that 
he  can't  be  a  good  Catholic  without  the  counsels  of 
Madame  Querouaille,  and  the  French  King  feels  that 
he  must  by  all  means  convert  and  save  so  fair  a  lady 
as — is  the  name  on  your  tongue,  nay,  is  it  in  your 
heart,  Simon?" 

"  I  know  whom  you  mean,"  I  answered,  for  her  rev- 
elation came  to  no  more  than  what  I  had  scented  out 
for  myself.  "  But  what  says  Buckingham  to  this  ?  " 

"  Why,  that  the  King  mustn't  have  his  way,  lest  he 
should  thereby  be  confirmed  in  his  Popish  inclinations. 
The  Duke  is  Protestant,  as  you  are — and  as  I  am,  so 
please  you." 

"  Can  he  hinder  it  ?  " 

"Aye,  if  he  can  hinder  the  French  King  from  hav- 
ing his  way.  And  for  this  purpose  his  Grace  has  need 
of  certain  things." 

"  Do  you  cany  a  message  from  him  to  me?  " 

"  I  did  but  say  that  I  knew  a  gentleman  who  might 


178  Simon  Dale. 

supply  his  needs.  They  are  four :  a  heart,  a  head, 
a  hand,  and  perhaps  a  sword." 

"  All  men  have  them,  then." 

"  Jhe  first  true,  the  second  long,  the  third  strong, 
and  the  fourth  ready." 

"  I  fear  then  that  I  haven't  all  of  them." 

"And  for  reward " 

"  I  know.     His  life,  if  he  can  come  off  with  it." 

Nell  burst  out  laughing. 

"  He  didn't  say  that,  but  it  may  well  reckon  up  to 
much  that  figure,"  she  admitted.  "  You'll  think  of  it, 
Simon?" 

"Think  of  it?     I!     Not  I!" 

"You  won't?" 

"  Or  I  mightn't  attempt  it." 

"Ah!     You  will  attempt  it?" 

"  Of  a  certainty." 

"You're  very  ready.     Is  it  all  honesty?" 

"  Is  ever  anything  all  honesty,  madame — saving 
your  devotion  to  the  King?  " 

"  And  the  French  lady's  to  her  religion  ?  "  laughed 
Nell.  "  On  my  soul  I  think  the  picture  that  the 
King  of  France  saw  was  a  fair  one.  Have  you  looked 
on  it,  Simon  ?  " 

"  On  my  life  I  don't  love  her." 

"  On  my  life  you  will." 

"  You  seek  to  stop  me  by  that  prophecy?  " 

"  I  don't  care  whom  you  love,"  said  she.  Then  her 
face  broke  into  smiles.  "  What  liars  women  are  ! " 
she  cried.  "  Yes,  I  do  care ;  not  enough  to  grow 
wrinkled,  but  enough  to  wish  I  hadn't  grown  half  a 
lady  and  could " 

"You  stop  ?" 

"  Could — could — could  slap  your  face,  Simon." 

"  It  would  be  a  light  infliction  after  breaking  a 
man's  heart,"  said  I,  turning  my  cheek  to  her  and 
beckoning  with  my  hand. 


The  Meed  of  Curiosity.  179 

"  You  should  have  a  revenge  on  my  face  ;  not  in 
kind,  but  in  kindness.  I  can't  strike  a  man  who  won't 
hit  back."  She  laughed  at  me  with  all  her  old  entic- 
ing gaiety. 

I  had  almost  sealed  the  bargain  ;  she  was  so  roguish 
and  so  pretty.  Had  we  met  first  then,  it  is  very 
likely  she  would  have  made  the  offer  and  very  cer- 
tain that  I  should  have  taken  it.  -But  there  had  been 
other  days  ;  I  sighed. 

"  I  loved  you  too  well  once  to  kiss  you  now,  mis- 
tress," said  I. 

•'You're  mighty  strange  at  times,  Simon,"  said  she, 
sighing  also,  and  lifting  her  brows.  "  Now  I'd  as 
lief  kiss  a  man  I  had  loved  as  any  other." 

"  Or  slap  his  face  ?  " 

"  If  I'd  never  cared  to  kiss,  I'd  never  care  for  the 
other  either.  You  rise  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes.     I  have  my  commission,  haven't  I  ?  " 

"  I  give  you  this  one  also,  and  yet  you  keep  it?" 

"Is  that  slight  not  yet  forgiven?" 

"  All  is  forgiven  and  all  is  forgotten — nearly,  Si- 
mon." 

At  this  instant — and  since  man  is  human,  woman 
persistent,  and  courtesy  imperative,  I  did  not  quarrel 
with  the  interruption — a  sound  came  from  the  room 
above,  strange  in  a  house  where  Nell  lived  (if  she  will 
pardon  so  much  candour)  but  oddly  familiar  to  me. 
I  held  up  my  hand  and  listened.  Nell's  rippling 
laugh  broke  in. 

"  Plague  on  him  !  "  she  cried.  "Yes,  he's  here.  Of 
a  truth  he's  resolute  to  convert  me,  and  the  fool 
amuses  me." 

"  Phineas  Tate,"  I  exclaimed,  amazed ;  for  beyond 
doubt  his  was  the  voice.  I  could  tell  his  intonation 
of  a  penitential  psalm  among  a  thousand.  I  had 
heard  it  in  no  other  key. 

"You  didn't  know?     Yet  that  other  fool,  your  ser- 


180  Simon  Dale. 

vant,  is  always  with  him.  They've  been  closeted  to- 
gether for  two  hours  at  a  time." 

"  Psalm-singing?" 

"  Now  and  again.     They're  often  quiet  too." 

"  He  preaches  to  you  ?  " 

"Only  a  little;  when  we  chance  to  meet  at  the 
door  he  gives  me  a  curse  and  promises  a  blessing;  no 
more." 

"  It's  very  little  to  come  to  Dover  for." 

"  You  would  have  come  farther  for  less  of  my  com- 
pany once,  sir." 

It  was  true,  but  it  did  not  solve  my  wonder  at  the 
presence  of  Phineas  Tate.  What  brought  the  fellow? 
Had  he  too  sniffed  out  something  of  what  was  afoot, 
and  come  to  fight  for  his  religion,  even  as  Louise  de 
Querouaille  fought  for  hers,  though  in  a  most  differ- 
ent fashion? 

I  had  reached  the  door  of  the  room  and  was  in  the 
passage.  Nell  came  to  the  threshold  and  stood  there 
smiling.  I  had  asked  no  more  questions  and  made 
no  conditions ;  I  knew  that  Buckingham  must  not 
show  himself  in  the  matter,  and  that  all  was  left  to 
me,  heart,  head,  hand,  sword,  and  also  that  same  re- 
ward if  I  were  so  lucky  as  to  come  by  it.  I  waited 
for  a  moment,  half  expecting  that  Phineas,  hearing 
my  voice,  would  show  himself,  but  he  did  not  appear. 
Nell  waved  her  hand  to  me ;  I  bowed  and  took  my 
leave,  turning  my  steps  back  towards  the  Castle.  The 
Court  would  be  awake,  and  whether  on  my  own  ac- 
count or  for  my  new  commission's  sake  I  must  be 
there. 

I  had  not  mounted  far  before  I  heard  a  puffing  and 
blowing  behind.  The  sound  proved  to  come  from 
Jonah  Wall,  who  was  toiling  after  me,  laden  with  a 
large  basket.  I  had  no  eagerness  for  Jonah's  society, 
but  rejoiced  to  see  the  basket ;  for  my  private  store 
of  food  and  wine  had  run  low,  and  if  a  man  is  to  find 


The  Meed  of  Curiosity.  181 

out  what  he  wants  to  know,  it  is  well  for  him  to  have 
a  pasty  and  a  bottle  ready  for  those  who  can  help 
him. 

"  What  have  you  there  ?  "  I  called,  waiting  for  him 
to  overtake  me. 

He  explained  that  he  had  been  making  purchases  in 
the  town  and  I  praised  his  zeal.  Then  I  asked  him 
suddenly, — 

"And  have  you  visited  your  friend,  Mr.  Tate  ?  " 

As  I  live,  the  fellow  went  suddenly  pale,  and  the 
bottles  clinked  in  his  basket  from  the  shaking  of  his 
hand.  Yet  I  spoke  mildly  enough. 

"  I — I  have  seen  him  but  once  or  twice,  sir,  since  I 
learnt  that  he  was  in  the  town.  I  thought  you  did 
not  wish  me  to  see  him." 

"  Nay,  you  can  see  him  as  much  as  you  like  as  long 
as  I  don't,"  I  answered  in  a  careless  tone,  but  keeping 
an  attentive  eye  on  Jonah.  His  perturbation  seemed 
strange.  If  Phineas'  business  were  only  the  conver- 
sion of  Mistress  Gwyn,  what  reason  had  Jonah  Wall  to 
go  white  as  Dover  cliffs  over  it  ? 

We  came  to  the  Castle  and  I  dismissed  him.  bid- 
ding him  stow  his  load  safely  in  my  quarters.  Then 
I  repaired  to  the  Duke  of  Monmouth's  apartments, 
wondering  in  what  mood  I  should  find  him  after  last 
night's  rebuff.  Little  did  he  think  that  I  had  been  a 
witness  of  it.  I  entered  his  room  ;  he  was  sitting  in 
his  chair,  with  him  was  Carford.  The  Duke's  face 
was  as  glum  and  his  air  as  ill-tempered  as  I  could 
wish.  Carford's  manner  was  subdued,  calm,  and  sym- 
pathetic. They  were  talking  earnestly  as  I  entered, 
but  ceased  their  conversation  at  once.  I  offered  my 
services. 

"  I  have  no  need  of  you  this  morning,  Simon," 
answered  the  Duke.  "  I'm  engaged  with  Lord  Car- 
ford." 

I  retired.     But  of  a  truth  that  morning  every  one  in 


1 82  Simon  Dale. 

the  Castle  was  engaged  with  some  one  else.  At  every 
turn  I  came  on  couples  in  anxious  consultation.  The 
approach  of  an  intruder  brought  immediate  silence, 
the  barest  civility  delayed  him,  his  departure  was  re- 
ceived gladly  and  was  signal  for  renewed  consultation. 
Well,  the  King  sets  the  mode,  and  the  King,  I  heard, 
was  closeted  with  Madame  and  the  Duke  of  York. 

But  not  with  M.  de  Perrencourt.  There  was  a  hun- 
dred feet  of  the  wall,  with  a  guard  at  one  end  and  a 
guard  at  the  other,  and  mid-way  between  them  a  soli- 
tary figure  stood  looking  down  on  Dover  town  and 
thence  out  to  sea.  In  an  instant  I  recognised  him, 
and  a  great  desire  came  over  me  to  speak  to  him. 
He  was  the  foremost  man  alive  in  that  day,  and  I 
longed  to  speak  with  him.  To  have  known  the  great 
is  to  have  tasted  the  true  flavour  of  your  times.  But 
how  to  pass  the  sentries?  Their  presence  meant  that 
M.  de  Perrencourt  desired  privacy.  I  stepped  up  to 
one  and  offered  to  pass.  He  barred  the  way. 

"But  I'm  in  the  service  of  his  Grace  the  Duke  of 
Monmouth,"  I  expostulated. 

"If  you  were  in  the  service  of  the  devil  himself  you 
couldn't  pass  here  without  the  King's  order,"  retorted 
the  fellow. 

"  Won't  his  head  serve  as  well  as  his  order  ?  "  I 
asked,  slipping  a  crown  into  his  hand.  "  Come,  I've  a 
message  from  his  Grace  for  the  French  gentleman. 
Yes,  it's  private.  Deuce  take  it,  do  fathers  always 
know  of  their  sons'  doings?  " 

"  No,  nor  sons  all  their  fathers'  sometimes,"  he 
chuckled.  "Along  with  you  quick,  and  run  if  you 
hear  me  whistle  ;  it  will  mean  my  officer  is  coming." 

I  was  alone  in  the  sacred  space  with  M.  de  Perren- 
court. I  assumed  an  easy  air  and  sauntered  along, 
till  I  was  within  a  few  yards  of  him.  Hearing  my  step 
then,  he  looked  round  with  a  start  and  asked  peremp- 
torily,— 


The  Meed  of  Curiosity.  183 

"What's  your  desire,  sir?" 

By  an  avowal  of  himself,  even  by  quoting  the  King's 
order,  he  could  banish  me.  But  if  his  cue  were  con- 
cealment and  ignorance  of  the  order,  why,  I  might  in- 
dulge my  curiosity.- 

"  Like  your  own,  sir,"  I  replied,  courteously,  "  a 
breath  of  fresh  air  and  a  sight  of  the  sea." 

He  frowned  a  little,  but  I  gave  him  no  time  to 
speak. 

"  That  fellow  though,"  I  pursued,  "  gave  me  to  un- 
derstand that  none  might  pass;  yet  the  King  is  not 
here,  is  he  ?  " 

"  Then  how  did  you  pass,  sir?"  asked  M.  de  Perren- 
court,  ignoring  my  last  question. 

"  Why,  with  a  lie,  sir,"  I  answered.  "  I  said  I  had  a 
message  for  you  from  the  Duke  of  Monmouth,  and 
the  fool  believed  me.  But  we  gentlemen  in  attend- 
ance must  stand  by  one  another.  You'll  not  betray 
me  ?  Your  word  on  it  ?  " 

A  slow  smile  broke  across  his  face. 

"No,  I'll  not  betray  you,"  said  he.  "You  speak 
French  well,  sir." 

"  So  M.  de  Fontelles,  whom  I  met  at  Canterbury, 
told  me.  Do  you  chance  to  know  him,  sir?" 

M.  de  Perrencourt  did  not  start  now;  I  should  have 
been  disappointed  if  he  had. 

"  Very  well,"  he  answered.  "  If  you're  his  friend 
you're  mine."  He  held  out  his  hand. 

"  I  take  it  on  false  pretences,"  said  I,  with  a  laugh, 
as  I  shook  it.  "  For  we  came  near  to  quarrelling, 
M.  de  Fontelles  and  I." 

"Ah,  on  what  point?" 

"A  nothing,  sir." 

"  Nay,  but  tell  me." 

"  Indeed  I  will  not,  if  you'll  pardon  me." 

"  Sir,  I  wish  to  know.  I  ins I  beg."  A  stare 

from-mehad  stopped  the  'insist '  when  it  was  half-way 


184  Simon  Dale. 

through  his  lips.  On  my  soul,  he  flushed !  I  tell  my 
children  sometimes  how  I  made  him  flush ;  the  thing 
was  not  done  often.  Yet  his  confusion  was  but  mo- 
mentary, and  suddenly,  I  know  not  how,  I  in  my  turn 
became  abashed  with  the  cold  stare  of  his  eyes,  and 
when  he  asked  me  my  name,  I  answered  baldly,  with 
never  a  bow  and  never  a  flourish,  "Simon  Dale." 

"  I  have  heard  your  name,"  said  he,  gravely.  Then 
he  turned  round  and  began  looking  at  the  sea  again. 

Now  had  he  been  wearing  his  own  clothes  (if  I  may 
so  say)  this  conduct  would  have  been  appropriate 
enough  ;  it  would  have  been  a  dismissal  and  I  should 
have  passed  on  my  way.  But  a  man  should  be  con- 
sistent in  his  disguises,  and  from  M.  de  Perrencourt, 
gentleman  in  waiting,  the  behaviour  was  mighty  un- 
civil. Yet  my  revenge  must  be  indirect. 

"  Is  it  true,  sir,"  I  asked,  coming  close  to  him, 
"  that  the  King  of  France  is  yonder  at  Calais  ?  So  it's 
said." 

"  I  believe  it  to  be  true,"  answered  M.  de  Perren- 
court. 

"  I  wish  he  had  come  over,"  I  cried.  "  I  should 
love  to  see  him,  for  they  say  that  he's  a  very  proper 
man,  although  he's  somewhat  short." 

M.  de  Perrencourt  did  not  turn  his  head,  but  again 
I  saw  his  cheek  flush.  To  speak  of  his  low  stature  was, 
I  had  heard  Monmouth  say,  to  commit  the  most  dire 
offence  in  King  Louis'  eyes. 

"  Now  how  tall  is  the  King,  sir  ?  "  I  asked.  "  Is  he 
as  tall  as  you,  sir?" 

M.  de  Perrencourt  was  still  silent.  To  tell  the 
truth,  I  began  to  be  a  little  uneasy ;  there  were  cells 
under  the  Castle  and  I  had  need  to  be  at  large  for  the 
coming  few  days. 

"  For,"  said  I,  "  they  tell  such  lies  concerning 
princes." 

Now  he  turned  towards  me,  saying, — 


The  Meed  of  Curiosity.  185 

"  There  you're  right,  sir.  The  King  of  France  is  of 
middle  size,  about  my  own  height." 

For  the  life  of  me  I  could  not  resist  it.  I  said  noth- 
ing with  my  tongue,  but  for  a  moment  I  allowed  my 
eyes  to  say,  "  But  then  you're  short,  sir."  He  under- 
stood, and  for  the  third  time  he  flushed. 

"  I  thought  as  much,"  said  I,  and  with  a  bow  I 
began  to  walk  on. 

But,  as  ill-luck  would  have  it,  I  was  not  to  come 
clear  off  from  my  indiscretion.  In  a  moment  I  should 
have  been  out  of  sight.  But  as  I  started  I  saw  a  gen- 
tleman pass  the  guard,  who  stood  at  the  salute.  It 
was  the  King;  escape  was  impossible.  He  walked 
straight  up  to  me,  bowing  carelessly  in  response  to 
M.  de  Perrencourt's  deferential  inclination  of  his  per- 
son. 

"How  came  you  here,  Mr.  Dale?"  he  asked,  ab- 
ruptly. "  The  guard  tells  me  that  he  informed  you 
of  my  orders  and  that  you  insisted  on  passing." 

M.  de  Perrencourt  felt  that  his  turn  was  come ;  he 
stood  there  smiling.  I  found  nothing  to  say  ;  if  I 
repeated  my  fiction  of  a  message,  the  French  gentle- 
man, justly  enraged,  would  betray  me. 

"  M.  de  Perrencourt  seemed  lonely,  Sir,"  I  answered 
at  last. 

"A  little  loneliness  hurts  no  man,"  said  the  King. 
He  took  out  his  tablets  and  began  to  write.  When  he 
was  done,  he  gave  me  the  message,  adding  "  Read  it." 
I  read,  "  Mr.  Simon  Dale  will  remain  under  arrest  in 
his  own  apartment  for  twenty-four  hours,  and  will  not 
leave  it  except  by  the  express  command  of  the  King." 
I  made  a  wry  face. 

"  If  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  wants  me — "  I  began. 

"  He'll  have  to  do  without  you,  Mr.  Dale,"  inter- 
rupted the  King.  "  Come,  M.  de  Perrencourt,  will 
you  give  me  your  arm  ? "  And  off  he  went  on  the 
French  gentleman's  arm,  leaving  me  most  utterly 


1 86  Simon  Dale* 

abashed  and  cursing  the  curiosity  that  had  brought 
me  to  this  trouble. 

"So  much  for  the  Duke  of  Buckingham's  'long 
head,'  "  said  I  to  myself  ruefully,  as  I  made  my  way 
towards  the  Constable's  Tower  in  which  his  Grace  was 
lodged,  arid  where  I  had  my  small  quarters. 

Indeed  I  might  well  feel  a  fool ;  for  the  next  twenty- 
four  hours,  during  which  I  was  to  be  a  prisoner,  would 
in  all  likelihood  see  the  issue  in  which  I  was  pledged 
to  bear  a  part.  Now  I  could  do  nothing.  Yet  at 
least  I  must  send  speedy  word  to  the  town  that  I  was 
no  longer  to  be  looked  to  for  any  help,  and  when  I 
reached  my  room  I  called  loudly  for  Jonah  Wall.  It 
was  but  the  middle  of  the  day,  yet  he  was  not  to  be 
seen.  I  walked  to  the  door  and  found,  not  Jonah, 
but  a  guard  on  duty. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here?" 

"  Seeing  that  you  stay  here,  sir,"  he  answered,  with 
a  grin. 

Then  the  King  was  very  anxious  that  I  should 
obey  his  orders,  and  had  lost  no  time  in  ensuring  my 
obedience  ;  he  was  right  to  take  his  measures,  for, 
standing  where  I  did,  his  orders  would  not  have  re- 
strained me.  I  was  glad  that  he  had  set  a  guard  on 
me  in  lieu  of  asking  my  parole.  For  much  as  I  love 
sin,  I  hate  temptation.  Yet  where  was  Jonah  Wall, 
and  how  could  I  send  my  message?  I  flung  myself 
on  the  bed  in  deep  despondency.  A  moment  later 
the  door  opened  and  Robert,  Darrell's  servant,  entered. 

"  My  master  begs  to  know  if  you  will  sup  with  him 
to-night,  sir." 

"Thank  him  kindly,"  said  I,  "but  if  you  ask  that 
gentleman  outside,  Robert,  he'll  tell  you  that  I  must 
sup  at  home  by  the  King's  desire.  I'm  under  arrest, 
Robert." 

"  My  master  will  be  grieved  to  hear  it,  sir,  and  the 
more  because  he  hoped  that  you  would  bring  some 


The  Meed  of  Curiosity.  187 

wine  with  you,  for  he  has  none,  and  he  has  guests  to 
sup  with  him." 

"Ah,  an  interested  invitation!  How  did  Mr.  Dar- 
rell  know  that  I  had  wine?" 

"Your  servant  Jonah  spoke  of  it  to  me,  sir,  and 
said  that  you  would  be  glad  to  send  my  master  some." 

"Jonah  is  liberal!  But  I'm  glad,  and  assure  Mr. 
Darrell  of  it.  Where  is  my  rascal?  " 

"  I  saw  him  leave  the  Castle  about  an  hour  ago  ; 
just  after  he  spoke  to  me  about  the  wine." 

"Curse  him!  I  wanted  him.  Well,  take  the 
wine.  There  are  six  bottles  that  he  got  to-day." 

"  There  is  French  wine  here,  sir,  and  Spanish. 
May  I  take  either?" 

"  Take  the  French  in  God's  name.  I  don't  want 
that.  I've  had  enough  of  France.  Stay,  though,  I 
believe  Mr.  Darrell  likes  the  Spanish  better." 

"Yes,  sir,  but  his  guests  will  like  the  French." 

"  And  who  are  these  guests  ?  " 

Robert  swelled  with  pride. 

"  I  thought  Jonah  would  have  told  you,  sir,"  said 
he.  "  The  King  is  to  sup  with  my  master." 

"Then,"  said  I,  "I'm  well  excused.  For  no  man 
knows  better  than  the  King  why  I  can't  come." 

The  fellow  took  his  bottles  and  went  off  grinning. 
I,  being  left,  fell  again  to  cursing  myself  for  a  fool, 
and  in  this  occupation  I  passed  the  hours  of  the  after- 
noon. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 
The  King's  Cup, 

AT  least  the  Vicar  would  be  pleased !  A  whimsical 
joy  in  the  anticipation  of  his  delight  shot  across  my 
gloomy  meditations  as  the  sunset  rays  threaded  their 
way  through  the  narrow  window  of  the  chamber  that 
was  my  cell.  The  thought  of  him  stayed  with  me, 
amusing  my  idleness  and  entertaining  my  fancy.  I 
could  imagine  his  wise  contented  nod,  far  from  sur- 
prise as  the  poles  are  apart,  full  of  self-approval  as  an 
egg  of  meat.  For  his  vision  had  been  clear,  in  htm 
faith  had  never  wavered.  Of  a  truth  the  prophecy 
which  old  Betty  Nasroth  spoke  (foolishness  though  it 
were)  was  through  Fortune's  freak  two  parts  fulfilled. 
What  remained  might  rest  unjustified  to  my  great 
content ;  small  comfort  had  I  won  from  so  much  as 
had  come  to  pass.  I  had  loved  where  the  King  loved 
and  my  youth,  though  it  raised  its  head  again,  still 
reeled  under  the  blow  ;  I  knew  what  the  King  hid — 
aye,  it  might  be  more  than  one  thing  that  he  hid  ;  my 
knowledge  landed  me  where  I  lay  now,  in  close  con- 
finement with  a  gaoler  at  my  door.  For  my  own 
choice  I  would  crave  the  Vicar's  pardon,  would  com- 
pound with  destiny,  and,  taking  the  proportion  of 
fate's  gifts  already  dealt  to  me  in  lieu  of  all,  would  go 
in  peace  to  humbler  doings,  beneath  the  dignity  of 
dark  prophecy,  but  more  fit  to  give  a  man  quiet  days 
and  comfort  in  his  life.  Indeed,  as  my  Lord  Quinton 
had  said  long  ago,  there  was  strange  wine  in  the  King's 


The  King's  Cup.  189 

cup,  and  I  had  no  desire  to  drink  of  it.  Yet  who  would 
not  have  been  moved  by  the  strange  working  of  events 
which  made  the  old  woman's  prophecy  seem  the  true 
reading  of  a  future  beyond  guess  or  reasonable  fore- 
cast ?  I  jeered  and  snarled  at  myself,  at  Betty,  at  her 
prophecy,  at  the  Vicar's  credulity.  But  the  notion 
would  not  be  expelled  ;  two  parts  stood  accomplished, 
but  the  third  remained.  "  Glamis  thou  art,  and  Caw- 
dor,  and  shalt  be  what  thou  art  promised  ! " — I  forget 
how  it  runs  on,  for  it  is  long  since  I  saw  the  play, 
though  I  make  bold  to  think  that  it  is  well  enough 
written.  Alas,  no  good  came  of  listening  to  witches 
there,  if  my  memory  holds  the  story  of  the  piece 
rightly. 

There  is  little  profit,  and  less  entertainment,  in  the 
record  of  my  angry  desponding  thoughts.  Now  I  lay 
like  a  log,  again  I  ranged  the  cell  as  a  beast  his  cage. 
I  cared  not  a  stiver  for  Buckingham's  schemes,  I  paid 
small  heed  to  Nell's  jealousy.  It  was  naught  to  me 
who  should  be  the  King's  next  favourite  and  although 
I,  with  all  other  honest  men,  hated  a  Popish  King,  the 
fear  of  him  would  not  have  kept  me  from  my  sleep  or 
from  my  supper.  Who  eats  his  dinner  the  less  though 
a  kingdom  fall  ?  To  take  a  young  man's  appetite 
away  and  keep  his  eyes  open  o'  nights  needs  a  nearer 
touch  than  that.  But  I  had  on  me  a  horror  of  what 
was  being  done  in  this  place  ;  they  sold  a  lady's  hon- 
our there,  throwing  it  in  for  a  make-weight  in  their 
bargain.  I  would  have  dashed  the  scales  from  their 
hands,  but  I  was  helpless.  There  is  the  truth,  a  man 
need  not  be  ashamed  for  having  had  a  trifle  of  honesty 
about  him  when  he  was  young.  And  if  my  honesty 
had  the  backing  of  something  else  that  I  myself  knew 
not  yet,  why,  for  honesty's  good  safety,  God  send  it 
such  backing  always !  Without  some  such  aid,  it  is 
too  often  brought  to  terms  and  sings  small  in  the  end. 

The  evening  grew  late  and  darkness  had  fallen.     I 


i9°  Simon  Dale. 

turned  again  to  my  supper  and  contrived  to  eat  and  to 
drink  a  glass  or  two  of  wine.  Suddenly  I  remembered 
Jonah  Wall  and  sent  a  curse  after  the  negligent  fellow, 
wherever  he  might  be,  determining  that  next  morning 
he  should  take  his  choice  between  a  drubbing  and  dis- 
missal. Then  I  stretched  myself  again  on  the  pallet, 
resolute  to  see  whether  a  man  could  will  himself 
asleep.  But  I  had  hardly  closed  my  eyes  when  I 
opened  them  again  and  started  up,  leaning  on  my 
elbow.  There  was  somebody  in  conversation  with  my 
gaoler.  The  conference  was  brief. 

"  Here's  the  King's  order,"  I  heard,  in  a  haughty, 
careless  tone.  "  Open  the  door,  fellow,  and  be  quick." 

The  door  was  flung  open.  I  sprang  to  my  feet  with 
a  bow.  The  Duke  of  Buckingham  stood  before  me, 
surveying  my  person  (in  truth,  my  state  was  very  di- 
shevelled) and  my  quarters  with  supercilious  amuse- 
ment. There  was  one  chair  and  I  set  it  for  him  ;  he 
sat  down,  pulling  off  his  lace-trimmed  gloves. 

"You  are  the  gentleman  I  wanted?"  he  asked. 

"  I  have  reason  to  suppose  so,  your  Grace,"  I  an- 
swered. 

"  Good,"  said  he.  "The  Duke  of  Monmouth  and  I 
have  spoken  to  the  King  on  your  behalf." 

I  bowed  grateful  acknowledgments. 

"You  are  free,"  he  continued,  to  my  joy.  "You'll 
leave  the  Castle  in  two  hours,"  he  added,  to  my  con- 
sternation. But  he  appeared  to  perceive  neither  effect 
of  his  words.  "  Those  are  the  King's  orders,"  he 
ended,  composedly. 

"  But,"  I  cried,  "  if  I  leave  the  Castle  how  can  I 
fulfil  your  Grace's  desire?" 

"  I  said  those  were  the  King's  orders.  I  have  some- 
thing to  add  to  them.  Here,  I  have  written  it  down, 
that  you  may  understand  and  not  forget.  Your  lan- 
tern there  gives  a  poor  light,  but  your  eyes  are  young. 
Read  what  is  written,  sir." 


The  King's  Cup.  191 

I  took  the  paper  that  he  handed  me  and  read : 

"  In  two  hours'  time  be  at  Canonsgate.  The  gate 
will  be  open.  Two  serving-men  will  be  there  with  two 
horses.  A  lady  will  be  conducted  to  the  gate  and  de- 
livered into  your  charge.  You  will  ride  with  her  as 
speedily  as  possible  to  Deal.  You  will  call  her  your 
sister,  if  need  arise  to  speak  of  her.  Go  to  the  hostelry 
of  the  Merry  Mariners  in  Deal,  and  there  await  a  gen- 
tleman, who  will  come  in  the  morning  and  hand  you 
fifty  guineas  in  gold.  Deliver  the  lady  to  this  gentle- 
man, return  immediately  to  London,  and  lie  in  safe 
hiding  till  word  reaches  you  from  me." 

I  read  and  turned  to  him  in  amazement. 

"  Well,"  he  asked,  "  isn't  it  plain  enough  ?  " 

"The  lady  I  can  guess,'!  I  answered,  "but  I  pray 
your  Grace  to  tell  me  who  is  the  gentleman." 

"  What  need  is  there  for  you  to  know  ?  Do  you 
think  that  more  than  one  will  seek  you  at  the  Merry 
Mariners  Tavern,  and  pray  your  acceptance  of  fifty 
guineas?  " 

"  But  I  should  like  to  know  who  this  one  is." 

"You'll  know  when  you  see  him." 

"  With  respect  to  your  Grace,  this  is  not  enough  to 
tell  me." 

"You  can't  be  told  more,  sir." 

"  Then  I  won't  go." 

He  frowned,  and  beat  his  gloves  on  his  thigh  impa- 
tiently. 

"A  gentleman,  your  Grace,"  said  I,  "must  be 
trusted,  or  he  cannot  serve." 

He  looked  round  the  little  cell  and  asked  signifi- 
cantly,— 

"  Is  your  state  such  as  to  entitle  you  to  make  con- 
ditions? " 

"  Only  if  your  Grace  has  need  of  services  which  I 
can  give  or  refuse,"  I  answered,  bowing. 

His  irritation  suddenly  vanished,  or  seemed  to  van- 
ish. He  leant  back  in  his  chair  and  laughed. 


i92  Simon  Dale. 

"  Yet  all  the  time,"  said  he,  "you've  guessed  the 
gentleman  !  Isn't  it  so  ?  Come,  Mr.  Dale,  we  under- 
stand one  another.  This  service,  if  all  goes  well,  is 
simple.  But  if  you're  interrupted  in  leaving  the  Cas- 
tle, you  must  use  your  sword.  Well,  if  you  use  your 
sword  and  don't  prove  victorious,  you  may  be  taken. 
If  you're  taken  it  will  be  best  for  us  all  that  you 
shouldn't  know  the  name  of  this  gentleman,  and  best 
for  him  and  for  me  that  I  should  not  have  mentioned 
it." 

The  little  doubt  I  had  harboured  was  gone.  Buck- 
ingham and  Monmouth  were  hand  in  hand.  Buck- 
ingham's object  was  political,  Monmouth  was  to  find 
his  reward  in  the  prize  that  I  was  to  rescue  from  the 
clutches  of  M.  de  Perrencourt  and  hand  over  to  him 
at  the  hostelry  in  Deal.  If  success  attended  the  at- 
tempt I  was  to  disappear;  if  it  failed,  my  name  and  I 
were  to  be  the  shield  and  bear  the  brunt.  The  re- 
ward was  fifty  guineas,  and  perhaps  a  serviceable  grat- 
itude in  the  minds  of  two  great  men,  provided  I  lived 
to  enjoy  the  fruit  of  it. 

"You'll  accept  this  task?"  asked  the  Duke. 

The  task  was  to  thwart  M.  de  Perrencourt  and  grat- 
ify the  Duke  of  Monmouth.  If  I  refused  it,  another 
might  accept  and  accomplish  it;  if  such  a  champion 
failed,  M.  de  Perrencourt  would  triumph.  If  I  ac- 
cepted, I  should  accept  in  the  fixed  intention  of  play- 
ing traitor  to  one  of  my  employers.  I  might  serve 
Buckingham's  turn,  I  should  seek  to  thwart  Mon- 
mouth. 

"  Who  pays  me  my  fifty  guineas  ?  "  I  asked. 

"Faith,  I,"  he  answered,  with  a  shrug.  "Young 
Monmouth  is  enough  his  father's  son  to  have  his 
pockets  always  empty." 

On  this  excuse  I  settled  my  point  of  casuistry  in  an 
instant. 

"Then  I'll  carry  the  lady  away  from  the  Castle,"  I 
cried. 


The  King's  Cup.  193 

He  started,  leant  forward,  and  looked  hard  in  my 
face.  "What  do  you  mean?  what  do  you  know?" 
he  asked  plainly  enough,  although  silently.  But  I  had 
cried  out  with  an  appearance  of  zeal  and  innocence 
that  baffled  his  curiosity,  and  my  guileless  expression 
gave  his  suspicions  no  food.  Perhaps,  too,  he  had  no 
wish  to  enquire.  There  was  little  love  between  him 
and  Monmouth,  for  he  had  been  bitterly  offended  by 
the  honours  and  precedence  assigned  to  the  Duke  ; 
only  a  momentary  coincidence  of  interest  bound  them 
together  in  this  scheme.  If  the  part  that  concerned 
Buckingham  were  accomplished,  he  would  not  break 
his  heart  on  account  of  the  lady  not  being  ready  for 
Monmouth  at  the  hostelry  of  the  Merry  Mariners. 

"  I  think,  then,  that  we  understand  one  another, 
Mr.  Dale  ?  "  said  he,  rising. 

"  Well  enough,  your  Grace,"  I  answrered  with  a  bow, 
and  I  rapped  on  the  door.  The  gaoler  opened  it. 

"  Mr.  Dale  is  free  to  go  where  he  will  within  the 
Castle.  You  can  return  to  your  quarters,"  said  Buck- 
ingham. 

The  soldier  marched  off.  Buckingham  turned  to 
me. 

"  Good  fortune  in  your  enterprise,"  he  said.  "  And 
I  give  you  joy  on  your  liberty." 

The  words  were  not  out  of  his  mouth  when  a  lieu- 
tenant and  two  men  appeared,  approaching  us  at  a 
rapid  walk,  nay,  almost  at  a  run.  They  made  directly 
for  us,  the  Duke  and  I  both  watching  them.  The 
officer's  sword  was  drawn  in  his  hand,  their  daggers 
were  fixed  in  the  muzzles  of  the  soldiers'  muskets. 

"  What's  happened  now  ?  "  asked  Buckingham,  in  a 
whisper. 

The  answer  was  not  long  in  coming.  The  lieuten- 
ant halted  before  us,  crying, — 

"  In  the  King's  name,  I  arrest  you,  sir." 

"  On  my  soul,  you've  a  habit  of  being  arrested,  sir," 


194  Simon  Dale. 

said  the  Duke,  sharply.  "  What's  the  cause  this 
time?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  I  answered,  and  I  asked  the  offi- 
cer, "  On  what  account,  sir?  " 

"  The  King's  orders,"  he  answered,  curtly.  "You 
must  come  with  me  at  once."  At  a  sign  from  him  his 
men  took  their  stand  on  either  side  of  me.  Verily 
my  liberty  had  been  short !  "  I  must  warn  you  that 
we  shall  stand  at  nothing  if  you  try  to  escape,"  said 
the  officer,  sternly. 

"  I'm  not  a  fool,  sir,"  I  answered.  "  Where  are  you 
going  to  take  me?" 

"  Where  my  orders  direct." 

"  Come,  come,"  interrupted  Buckingham,  impa- 
tiently, "not  so  much  mystery.  You  know  me? 
Well,  this  gentleman  is  my  friend  and  I  desire  to 
know  where  you  take  him." 

"  I  crave  your  Grace's  pardon,  but  I  must  not  an- 
swer." 

"Then  I'll  follow  you,  and  discover,"  cried  the 
Duke,  angrily. 

"At  your  Grace's  peril,"  answered  the  officer,  firmly. 
"  If  you  insist,  I  must  leave  one  of  my  men  to  detain 
you  here.  Mr.  Dale  must  go  alone  with  me." 

Wrath  and  wonder  were  eloquent  on  the  proud 
Duke's  face.  In  me  this  new  misadventure  bred  a 
species  of  resignation.  I  smiled  at  him,  as  I  said, — 

"  My  business  with  your  Grace  must  wait,  it  seems." 

"  Forward,  sir,"  cried  the  officer  impatiently,  and  I 
was  marched  off  at  a  round  pace,  Buckingham  not  at- 
tempting to  follow,  but  turning  back  in  the  direction 
of  the  Duke  of  Monmouth's  quarters.  The  confed- 
erates must  seek  a  new  instrument  now;  if  their  pur- 
pose were  to  thwart  the  King's  wishes,  they  might 
not  find  what  they  wanted  again  so  easily. 

I  was  conducted  straight  and  quickly  to  the  keep, 
and  passed  up  the  steps  that  led  to  the  corridor  in 


The  King's  Cup.  19$ 

which  the  King  was  lodged.  They  hurried  me  along, 
and  I  had  time  to  notice  nothing  until  I  came  to  a 
door  near  the  end  of  the  building,  on  the  western 
side.  Here  I  found  Darrell,  apparently  on  guard,  for 
his  sword  was  drawn  and  a  pistol  in  his  left  hand. 

"  Here,  sir,  is  Mr.  Dale,"  said  my  conductor. 

"Good,"  answered  Darrell,  briefly.  I  saw  that  his 
face  was  very  pale,  and  he  accorded  me  not  the  least 
sign  of  recognition.  "  Is  he  armed  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  You  see  I  have  no  weapons,  Mr.  Darrell,"  said  I, 
stiffly. 

"  Search  him,"  commanded  Darrell,  ignoring  me 
utterly. 

I  grew  hot  and  angry.  The  soldiers  obeyed  the 
order.  I  fixed  my  eyes  on  Darrell,  but  he  would  not 
meet  my  gaze;  the  point  of  his  sword  tapped  the  floor 
on  which  it  rested,  for  his  hand  was  shaking  like  a  leaf. 

"  There's  no  weapon  on  him,"  announced  the  officer. 

"  Very  well.  Leave  him  with  me,  sir,  and  retire 
with  your  men  to  the  foot  of  the  steps.  If  you  hear  a 
whistle,  return  as  quickly  as  possible." 

The  officer  bowed,  turned  about  and  departed,  fol- 
lowed by  his  men.  Darrell,  and  I  stood  facing  one 
another  for  a  moment. 

"  In  hell's  name  what's  the  meaning  of  this,  Dar- 
rell ?  "  I  cried.  "  Has  Madame  brought  the  Bastille 
over  with  her  and  are  you  made  Governor  ?  " 

He  answered  not  a  word.  Keeping  his  sword  still 
in  readiness,  he  knocked  with  the  muzzle  of  his  pistol 
on  the  door  by  him.  After  a  moment  it  was  opened, 
and  a  head  looked  out.  The  face  was  Sir  Thomas 
Clifford's ;  the  door  was  flung  wide,  a  gesture  from 
Darrell  bade  me  enter.  I  stepped  in,  he  followed,  and 
the  door  was  instantly  shut  close  behind  us. 

I  shall  not  readily  forget  the  view  disclosed  to  me 
by  the  flaring  oil  lamps  hung  in  sconces  to  the  ancient 
smoky  walls.  I  was  in  a  narrow  room,  low  and  not 


196  Simon  Dale* 

large,  scantly  furnished  with  faded  richness  and  hung 
to  half  its  height  with  mouldering  tapestries.  The 
floor  was  bare,  and  uneven  from  time  and  use.  In  the 
middle  of  the  room  was  a  long  table  of  polished  oak 
wood  ;  in  the  centre  of  it  sat  the  King,  on  his  left  was 
the  Duchess  of  Orleans  and  beyond  her  the  Duke  of 
York ;  on  the  King's  right  at  the  end  of  the  table  was 
an  empty  chair;  Clifford  moved  towards  it  now  and 
took  his  seat ;  next  to  him  was  Arlington,  then  Col- 
bert de  Croissy,  the  Special  Envoy  of  the  French 
King.  Next  to  our  King  was  another  empty  chair,  an 
arm-chair,  like  the  King's  ;  empty  it  was,  but  M.  de 
Perrencourt  leant  easily  over  the  back  of  it,  with  his 
eyes  fixed  on  me.  On  the  table  were  materials  for 
writing,  and  a  large  sheet  of  paper  faced  the  King — or 
M.  de  Perrencourt;  it  seemed  just  between  them. 
There  was  nothing  else  on  the  table  except  a  bottle  of 
wine  and  two  cups  ;  one  was  full  to  the  brim,  while 
the  liquor  in  the  other  fell  short  of  the  top  of  the  glass 
by  a  quarter  of  an  inch.  All  present  were  silent ; 
save  M.  de  Perrencourt  all  seemed  disturbed  ;  the 
King's  swarthy  face  appeared  rather  pale  than  swarthy, 
and  his  hand  rapped  nervously  on  the  table.  All  this 
I  saw,  while  Darrell  stood  rigidly  by  me,  sword  in 
hand. 

Madame  was  the  first  to  speak  ;  her  delicate  subtle 
face  lit  up  with  recognition. 

"Why,  I  have  spoken  with  this  gentleman,"  she 
said,  in  a  low  voice. 

"  And  I  also,"  said  M.  de  Perrencourt,  under  his 
breath.  I  think  he  hardly  knew  that  he  spoke,  for 
the  words  seemed  the  merest  unconscious  outcome  of 
his  thoughts. 

The  King  raised  his  hand,  as  though  to  impose 
silence.  Madame  bowed  in  apologetic  submission. 
M.  de  Perrencourt  took  no  heed  of  the  gesture,  al- 
though he  did  not  speak  again.  A  moment  later  he 


The  King's  Cop.  197 

laid  his  hand  on  Colbert's  shoulder  and  whispered  to 
him.  I  thought  I  heard  just  a  word,  it  was  "  Fon- 
telles."  Colbert  looked  up  and  nodded.  M.  de  Per- 
rencourt  folded  his  arms  on  the  back  of  the  chair  and 
his  face  resumed  its  impassivity. 

Another  moment  elapsed  before  the  King  spoke. 
His  voice  was  calm,  but  there  seemed  still  to  echo  in 
it  a  trace  of  some  violent  emotion  newly  passed ;  a 
slight  smile  curved  his  lips,  but  there  was  more  malice 
than  mirth  in  it. 

"  Mr.  Dale,"  said  he,  "  the  gentleman  who  stands 
by  you  once  beguiled  an  idle  minute  for  me  by  telling 
me  of  a  certain  strange  prophecy  made  concerning 
you  which  he  had,  he  said,  from  your  own  lips,  and  in 
which  my  name — or  at  least  some  king's  name — and 
yours  were  quaintly  coupled.  You  know  what  I  refer 
to?" 

I  bowed  low,  wondering  what  in  heaven's  name  he 
could  be  at.  It  was,  no  doubt,  high  folly  to  love  Mis- 
tress Gwyn,  but  scarcely  high  treason.  Besides,  had 
not  I  repented  and  forsworn  her?  Ah, but  the  second 
member  of  the  prophecy?  I  glanced  eagerly  at  M.  de 
Perrencourt,  eagerly  at  the  paper  before  the  King. 
There  were  lines  on  the  paper,  but  I  could  not  read 
them,  and  M.  de  Perrencourt's  face  was  fully  as  baf- 
fling. 

"  If  I  remember  rightly,"  pursued  the  King,  after 
listening  to  a  whispered  sentence  from  his  sister,  "  the 
prediction  foretold  that  you  should  drink  of  my  cup. 
Is  it  not  so  ?  " 

"  It  was  so,  Sir,  although  what  your  Majesty  quotes 
was  the  end,  not  the  beginning  of  it." 

For  an  instant  a  smile  glimmered  on  the  King's 
face ;  it  was  gone  and  he  proceeded  gravely, — 

"  I  am  concerned  only  with  that  part  of  it.  I  love 
prophecies  and  I  love  to  see  them  fulfilled.  You  see 
that  cup  there,  the  one  that  is  not  quite  full.  That 


198  Simon  Dale. 

cup  of  wine  was  poured  out  for  me,  the  other  for  my 
friend  M.  de  Perrencourt.  I  pray  you,  drink  of  my 
cup  and  let  the  prophecy  stand  fulfilled." 

In  honest  truth  I  began  to  think  that  the  King  had 
drunk  other  cups  before  and  left  them  not  so  full. 
Yet  he  looked  sober  enough,  and  the  rest  were  grave 
and  mute.  What  masquerade  was  this,  to  bring  me 
under  guard  and  threat  of  death  to  drink  a  cup  of 
wine?  I  would  have  drunk  a  dozen  of  my  free  will, 
for  the  asking. 

"Your  Majesty  desires  me  to  drink  that  cup  of 
wine  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  the  cup  that  was  poured  out  for 
me." 

"  With  all  my  heart,"  I  cried,  and,  remembering  my 
manners,  I  added,  "and  with  most  dutiful  thanks  to 
your  Majesty  for  this  signal  honour." 

A  stir,  hardly  to  be  seen,  yet  certain,  ran  round  the 
table.  Madame  stretched  out  a  hand  towards  the  cup 
as  though  with  a  sudden  impulse  to  seize  it  ;  the  King 
caught  her  hand  and  held  it  prisoner.  M.  de  Perren- 
court suddenly  dragged  his  chair  back,  and,  passing  in 
front  of  it,  stood  close  over  the  table.  Colbert  looked 
up  at  him,  but  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  me,  and  the 
Envoy  went  unnoticed. 

"  Then  come  and  take  it,"  said  the  King. 

I  advanced,  after  a  low  bow.  Darrell,  to  my  fresh 
wonder,  kept  pace  with  me,  and  when  I  reached  the 
table,  was  still  at  my  side.  Before  I  could  move  his 
sword  might  be  through  me  or  the  ball  from  his  pistol 
in  my  brains.  The  strange  scene  began  to  intoxicate 
me,  its  stirring  suggestion  mounting  to  my  brain  like 
fumes  of  wine.  I  seized  the  cup  and  held  it  high  in 
my  hand.  I  looked  down  in  the  King's  face,  and 
thence  to  Madame's ;  to  her  I  bowed  low  and  cried, — 

"  By  his  Majesty's  permission  I  will  drain  this  cup 
to  the  honour  of  the  fairest  and  most  illustrious  Prin- 
cess, Madame  the  Duchess  of  Orleans." 


The  King's  Cop.  199 

The  Duchess  half  rose  from  her  seat,  crying  in  a 
loud  whisper,  "  Not  to  me,  no,  no  !  I  can't  have  him 
drink  it  to  me." 

The  King  still  held  her  hand. 

"  Drink  it  to  me,  Mr.  Dale,"  said  he. 

I  bowed  to  him  and  put  the  cup  to  my  lips.  I  was 
in  the  act  to  drink  it,  when  M.  de  Perrencourt  spoke. 

"A  moment,  sir,"  he  said,  calmly.  "Have  I  the 
King's  permission  to  tell  Mr.  Dale  a  secret  concerning 
this  wine?  " 

The  Duke  of  York  looked  up  with  a  frown,  the  King 
turned  to  M.  de  Perrencourt  as  if  in  doubt,  the  French- 
man met  his  glance  and  nodded. 

"  M.  de  Perrencourt  is  our  guest,"  said  the  King. 
"  He  must  do  as  he  will." 

M.  de  Perrencourt,  having  thus  obtained  permission 
(when  was  his  will  denied  him  ?),  leant  one  hand  on 
the  table,  and,  bending  across  towards  me,  said  in  slow, 
calm,  yet  impressive  tones, — 

"  The  King,  sir,  was  wearied  with  business  and 
parched  with  talking ;  of  his  goodness  he  detected  in 
me  the  same  condition.  So  he  bade  my  good  friend 
and  his  good  subject  Mr.  Darrell  furnish  him  with  a 
bottle  of  wine,  and  Mr.  Darrell  brought  a  bottle,  say- 
ing that  the  King's  cellar  was  shut  and  the  cellarman 
in  bed,  but  praying  the  King  to  honour  him  by  drink- 
ing his  wine,  which  was  good  French  wine,  such  as  the 
King  loved  and  such  as  he  hoped  to  put  before  his 
Majesty  at  supper  presently.  Then  his  Majesty  asked 
whence  it  came,  and  Mr.  Darrell  answered  that  he  was 
indebted  for  it  to  his  good  friend  Mr.  Simon  Dale, 
who  would  be  honoured  by  the  King's  drinking  it." 

"  Why,  it's  my  own  wine  then  ! "  I  cried,  smiling 
now. 

"  He  spoke  the  truth,  did  he?"  pursued  M.  de  Per- 
rencourt, composedly.  "  It  is  your  wine,  sent  by  you 
to  Mr.  Darrell  ?  " 


2OO  Simon  Dale* 

"  Even  so,  sir,"  I  answered.  "  Mr.  Darrell's  wine 
was  out  and  I  sent  him  some  bottles  of  mine  by  his 
servant." 

"You  knew  for  what  he  needed  k?" 

I  had  forgotten  for  the  moment  what  Robert  said, 
and  hesitated  in  my  answer.  M.  de  Perrencourt 
looked  intently  at  me. 

"  I  think,"  said  I,  "  that  Robert  told  me  Mr.  Darrell 
expected  the  King  to  sup  with  him." 

"  He  told  you  that  ?  "  he  asked,  sharply. 

"Yes,  I  remember  that,"  said  I,  now  thoroughly 
bewildered  by  the  history  and  the  catechism  which 
seemed  necessary  to  an  act  so  simple  as  drinking  a 
glass  of  my  own  wine. 

M.  de  Perrencourt  said  nothing  more,  but  his  eyes 
were  still  set  on  my  face  with  a  puzzled,  searching 
expression.  His  glance  confused  me  and  I  looked 
round  the  table.  Often  at  such  moments  the  merest 
trifles  catch  our  attention,  and  now  for  the  first  time 
I  observed  that  a  little  of  the  wine  had  been  spilt  on 
the  polished  oak  of  the  table ;  where  it  had  fallen  the 
bright  surface  seemed  rusted  to  dull  brown.  I  noticed 
the  change  and  wondered  for  an  idle  second  how  it 
came  that  wine  turned  a  polished  table  dull.  The 
thing  was  driven  from  my  head  the  next  moment  by 
a  brief  and  harsh  order  from  the  King. 

"  Drink,  sir,  drink." 

Strained  with  excitement,  I  started  at  the  order,  and 
slopped  some  of  the  wine  from  the  cup  on  my  hand. 
I  felt  a  strange  burning  where  it  fell,  but  again  the 
King  cried,  "  Drink,  sir." 

I  hesitated  no  more.  Recalling  my  wandering  wits 
and  determining  to  play  my  part  in  the  comedy,  what- 
ever it  might  mean,  I  bowed,  cried,  "  God  save  your 
Majesty,"  and  raised  the  cup  to  my  lips.  As  it 
touched  them,  I  saw  Madame  hide  her  eyes  with  her 
hand  and  M.  de  Perrencourt  lean  further  across  the 


THK    KINi;  S   Cl'P. — PAGE    2OO. 


The  King's  Cup.  201 

table,  while  a  short  quick  gasp  of  breath  came  from 
where  Darrell  stood  by  my  side. 

I  knew  how  to  take  off  a  bumper  of  wine.  No 
sippings  and  swallowings  forme!  I  laid  my  tongue 
well  down  in  the  bottom  of  my  mouth  that  the  liquor 
might  have  fair  passage  to  my  gullet  and  threw  my 
head  back  as  you  see  a  hen  do  (in  thanks  to  heaven, 
they  say,  though  she  drinks  only  water).  Then  1 
tilted  the  cup  and  my  mouth  was  full  of  the  wine.  I 
was  conscious  of  a  taste  in  it,  a  strange  acrid  taste. 
Why,  it  was  poor  wine,  turned  sour;  it  should  go 
back  to-morrow;  that  fool  Jonah  was  a  fool  in  all 
things ;  and  I  stood  disgraced  for  offering  this  acrid 
stuff  to  a  friend.  And  he  gave  it  to  the  King!  It 
was  the  cruellest  chance.  Why — 

Suddenly,  when  I  had  gulped  down  but  one  good 
mouthful,  I  saw  M.  de  Perrencourt  lean  right  across 
the  table.  Yet  I  saw  him  dimly,  for  my  eyes  seemed 
to  grow  glazed  and  the  room  to  spin  round  me,  the 
figures  at  the  table  taking  strange  shapes  and  weird 
dim  faces,  and  a  singing  sounding  in  my  ears,  as 
though  the  sea  roared  there,  and  not  on  Dover  Beach. 
There  was  a  woman's  cry,  and  a  man's  arm  shot  out  at 
me.  I  felt  a  sharp  blow  on  my  wrist,  the  cup  was 
dashed  from  my  hand  on  to  the  stone  floor,  breaking 
into  ten  thousand  pieces,  while  the  wine  made  a 
puddle  at  my  feet.  I  stood  there  for  an  instant,  struck 
motionless,  glaring  into  the  face  that  was  opposite  to 
mine.  It  wasM.de  Perrencourt 's,  no  longer  calm  but 
pale  and  twitching.  This  was  the  last  thing  I  saw 
clearly.  The  King  and  his  companions  were  fused  in 
a  shifting  mass  of  trunks  and  faces,  the  walls  raced 
round,  the  singing  of  the  sea  roared  and  fretted  in  my 
ears.  I  caught  my  hand  to  my  brow  and  staggered ; 
I  could  not  stand,  I  heard  a  clatter  as  though  of  a 
sword  falling  to  the  floor,  arms  were  stretched  out  to 
receive  me  and  I  sank  into  them,  hearing  a  murmur 
close  by  me,  "  Simon,  Simon  !  " 


202  Simon  Dale* 

Yet  one  thing  more  I  heard,  before  my  senses  left 
me,  a  loud,  proud,  imperious  voice,  the  voice  that 
speaks  to  be  obeyed,  whose  assertion  brooks  no  con- 
tradiction. It  rang  in  my  ears  where  nothing  else 
could  reach  them,  and  even  then  I  knew  whence  it 
came.  The  voice  was  the  voice  of  M.  de  Perrencourt, 
and  it  seemed  that  he  spoke  to  the  King  of  England. 

"  Brother,"  he  cried,  "  by  my  faith  in  God,  this  gen- 
tleman is  innocent,  and  his  life  is  on  our  heads,  if  he 
lose  it." 

I  heard  no  more.  Stupor  veiled  me  round  in  an  im- 
penetrable mist.  The  figures  vanished,  the  tumultu- 
ous singing  ceased.  A  great  silence  encompassed  me, 
and  all  was  gone. 


CHAPTER  XV. 
M.  de  Perrencourt  Whispers* 

SLOWLY  the  room  and  the  scene  came  back  to  me, 
disengaging  themselves  from  the  darkness  which  had 
settled  on  my  eyes,  regaining  distinctness  and  their 
proper  form.  I  was  sitting  in  a  chair  and  there  were 
wet  bandages  about  my  head.  Those  present  before 
were  there  still  save  M.  de  Perrencourt,  whose  place 
at  the  table  was  vacant  ;  the  large  sheet  of  paper  and 
the  materials  for  writing  had  vanished.  There  was  a 
fresh  group  at  the  end,  next  to  Arlington  ;  here  now 
sat  the  Dukes  of  Monmouth  and  Buckingham,  carry, 
ing  on  a  low  conversation  with  the  Secretary.  The 
King  lay  back  in  his  chair,  frowning  and  regarding 
with  severe  gaze  a  man  who  stood  opposite  to  him, 
almost  where  I  had  been  when  I  drank  of  the  King's 
cup.  There  stood  Darrell  and  the  lieutenant  of  the 
Guards  who  had  arrested  me,  and  between  them,  with 
clothes  torn  and  muddy,  face  scratched  and  stained 
with  blood,  with  panting  breath  and  gleaming  eyes, 
firmly  held  by  either  arm,  was  Phineas  Tate  the  Ran- 
ter. They  had  sent  and  caught  him  then,  while  I  lay 
unconscious.  But  what  led  them  to  suspect  him? 

There  was  the  voice  of  a  man  speaking  from  the 
other  side  of  this  party  of  three.  I  could  not  see 
him,  for  their  bodies  came  between,  but  I  recognised 
the  tones  of  Robert,  Darrell's  servant.  It  was  he, 
then,  who  had  put  them  on  Jonah's  track,  and,  in  fol- 
lowing that,  they  must  have  come  on  Phineas. 


Simon  Dale* 

"  We  found  the  two  together,"  he  was  saying,  "  this 
man  and  Mr.  Dale's  servant  who  had  brought  the 
wine  from  the  town.  Both  were  armed  with  pistols 
and  daggers,  and  seemed  ready  to  meet  an  attack.  In 
the  alley  in  front  of  the  house  that  I  have  named " 

"Yes,  yes,  enough  of  the  house,"  interrupted  the 
King,  impatiently. 

"In  the  alley  there  were  two  horses  ready.  We 
attacked  the  men  at  once,  the  lieutenant  and  I  mak- 
ing for  this  one  here,  the  two  with  us  trying  to  se- 
cure Jonah  Wall.  This  man  struggled  desperately, 
but  seemed  ignorant  of  how  to  handle  his  weapons. 
Yet  he  gave  us  trouble  enough,  and  we  had  to  use 
him  roughly.  At  last  we  had  him,  but  then  we  found 
that  Jonah,  who  fought  like  a  wild  cat,  had  wounded 
both  the  guards  with  his  knife,  and,  although  himself 
wounded,  had  escaped  by  the  stairs.  Leaving  this 
man  with  the  lieutenant  I  rushed  down  after  him,  but 
one  of  the  horses  was  gone,  and  I  heard  no  sound  of 
hoofs.  He  had  got  a  start  of  us  and  is  well  out  of 
Dover  by  now." 

I  was  straining  all  my  attention  to  listen,  yet  my 
eyes  fixed  themselves  on  Phineas,  whose  head  was 
thrown  back  defiantly.  Suddenly  a  voice  came  from 
behind  my  chair. 

"  That  man  must  be  pursued,"  said  M.  de  Perren- 
court.  "  Who  knows  that  there  may  not  be  accom- 
plices in  this  devilish  plot  ?  This  man  has  planned  to 
poison  the  King,  the  servant  was  his  confederate.  I 
say,  may  there  not  have  been  others  in  the  wicked 
scheme?" 

"True,  true,"  said  the  King,  uneasily.  "We  must 
lay  this  Jonah  Wall  by  the  heels.  What's  known  of 
him?" 

Thinking  the  appeal  was  made  to  me,  I  strove  to 
rise.  M.  de  Perrencourt's  arm  reached  over  the  back 
of  my  chair  and  kept  me  down.  I  heard  Darrell  take 


M.  de  Perrencourt  Whispers.  205 

up  the  story  and  tell  what  he  knew — and  it  was  as 
much  as  I  knew — of  Jonah  Wall,  and  what  he  knew 
of  Phineas  Tate  also. 

"  It  is  a  devilish  plot,"  said  the  King,  who  was  still 
greatly  shaken  and  perturbed.  • 

Then  Phineas  spoke  loudly,  boldly,  and  with  a  voice 
full  of  the  rapturous  fanaticism  which  drowned  con- 
science and  usurped  in  him  religion's  place. 

"  Here,"  he  cried,  "  are  the  plots,  here  are  the  devil- 
ish plots !  What  do  you  here  ?  Aye,  what  do  you 
plot  here  ?  Is  this  man's  life  more  than  God's  Truth  ? 
Is  God's  Word  to  be  lost  that  the  sins  and  debauchery 
of  this  man  may  continue  ?  " 

His  long  lean  fore-finger  pointed  at  the  King.  A 
mute  consternation  fell  for  an  instant  on  them  all, 
and  none  interrupted  him.  They  had  no  answer  ready 
for  his  question ;  men  do  not  count  on  such  questions 
being  asked  at  Court,  the  manners  are  too  good  there. 

"  Here  are  the  plots !  I  count  myself  blessed  to 
die  in  the  effort  to  thwart  them  !  I  have  failed,  but 
others  shall  not  fail !  God's  Judgment  is  sure.  What 
do  you  here,  Charles  Stuart?  " 

M.  de  Perrencourt  walked  suddenly  and  briskly 
round  to  where  the  King  sat  and  whispered  in  his  ear. 
The  King  nodded  and  said, — 

"  I  think  this  fellow  is  mad,  but  it's  a  dangerous 
madness." 

Phineas  did  not  heed  him,  but  cried  aloud, — 

"  And  you  here — are  you  all  with  him  ?  Are  you  all 
apostates  from  God  ?  Are  you  all  given  over  to  the 
superstitions  of  Rome?  Are  you  all  here  to  barter 
God's  word  and " 

The  King  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  I  won't  listen,"  he  cried.  "  Stop  his  cursed  mouth  ! 
I  won't  listen ! "  He  looked  round  with  fear  and 
alarm  in  his  eyes.  I  perceived  his  gaze  turned  towards 
his  son  and  Buckingham.  Following  it,  I  saw  their 


206  Simon  Dale. 

faces  alight  with  eagerness,  excitement  and  curiosity. 
Arlington  looked  down  at  the  table,  Clifford  leant  his 
head  on  his  hand,  at  the  other  end  the  Duke  of  York 
had  sprung  up  like  his  brother  and  was  glaring  angrily 
at  the  bold  prisoner.  Darrell  did  not  wait  to  be  bidden 
twice,  but  whipped  a  silk  handkerchief  from  his  pocket. 

"Here  and  now  the  deed  is  being  done!"  cried 
Phineas.  "  Here  and  now — "  He  could  say  no  more, 
in  spite  of  his  desperate  struggles  he  was  gagged  and 
stood  silent,  his  eyes  still  burning  with  the  message 
which  his  lips  were  not  suffered  to  utter.  The  King 
sank  back  in  his  seat,  and  cast  a  furtive  glance  round 
the  table.  Then  he  sighed  as  though  in  relief  and 
wiped  his  brow.  Monmouth's  voice  came  clear,  care- 
less, confident. 

"  What's  this  madness?"  he  asked.  "Who  here  is 
bartering  God's  Word  ?  And  for  what,  pray  ?  " 

No  answer  was  given  to  him  ;  he  glanced  in  insolent 
amusement  at  Arlington  and  Clifford,  then  in  insolent 
defiance  at  the  Duke  of  York. 

"  Is  not  the  religion  of  the  country  safe  with  the 
King  ?  "  he  asked,  bowing  to  his  father. 

"  So  safe,  James,  that  it  does  not  need  you  to  cham- 
pion it,"  said  the  King  dryly ;  yet  his  voice  trembled 
a  little.  Phineas  raised  that  lean  fore-finger  at  him 
again  and  pointed.  "  Tie  the  fellow's  arms  to  his 
side,"  the  King  commanded  in  hasty  irritation  ;  he 
sighed  again  when  the  finger  could  no  longer  point  at 
him  and  his  eyes  again  furtively  sought  Monmouth's 
face.  The  young  Duke  leant  back  with  a  scornful 
smile,  and  the  consciousness  of  the  King's  regard  did 
not  lead  him  to  school  his  face  to  any  more  seemly  ex- 
pression. My  wits  had  come  back  now,  although  my 
head  ached  fiercely  and  my  body  was  full  of  acute 
pain ;  but  I  watched  all  that  passed  and  I  knew  that, 
come  what  might,  they  would  not  let  Phineas  speak. 
Yet  Phineas  could  know  nothing.  Nay,  but  the 


M.  de  Perrencourt  Whispers.  207 

shafts  of  madness,  often  wide,  may  once  hit  the  mark. 
The  paper  that  had  lain  between  the  King  and  M.  de 
Perrencourt  was  hidden. 

Again  the  French  gentleman  bent  and  whispered 
in  the  King's  ear.  He  spoke  long  this  time  and  all 
kept  silence  while  he  spoke,  Phineas  because  he  must, 
the  lieutenant  with  surprised  eyes,  the  rest  in  that 
seeming  indifference  which,  as  I  now  knew,  masked 
their  real  deference.  At  last  the  King  looked  up, 
nodded,  and  smiled.  His  air  grew  calmer  and  more 
assured,  and  the  trembling  was  gone  from  his  voice  as 
he  spoke. 

"  Come,  gentlemen,"  said  he,  "  while  we  talk,  this 
ruffian  who  has  escaped  us  makes  good  pace  from  Do- 
ver. Let  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  and  the  Duke  of 
Buckingham  each  take  a  dozen  men  and  scour  the 
country  for  him.  I  shall  be  greatly  in  the  debt  of 
either  who  brings  him  to  me." 

The  two  Dukes  started.  The  service  which  the 
King  demanded  of  them  entailed  an  absence  of  several 
hours  from  the  Castle.  It  might  be  that  they,  or  one 
of  them,  would  learn  something  from  Jonah  Wall,  but 
it  was  far  more  likely  that  they  would  not  find  him,  or 
that  he  would  not  suffer  himself  to  be  taken  alive. 
Why  were  they  sent  and  not  a  couple  of  the  officers 
on  duty  ?  But  if  the  King's  object  were  to  secure  their 
absence,  the  scheme  was  well  laid.  I  thought  now 
that  I  could  guess  what  M.  de  Perrencourt  had  said  in 
that  whispered  conference.  Buckingham  had  the  dis- 
cretion to  recognise  when  the  game  went  against  him. 
He  rose  at  once  with  a  bow,  declaring  that  he  hastened 
to  obey  the  King's  command,  and  would  bring  the  fel- 
low in,  dead  or  alive.  Monmouth  had  less  self-control. 
He  rose  indeed,  but  reluctantly  and  with  a  sullen 
frown  on  his  handsome  face. 

"  It's  poor  work  looking  for  a  single  man  over  the 
countryside,"  he  grumbled. 


ao8  Simon  Dale. 

"  Your  devotion  to  me  will  inspire  and  guide  you, 
James,"  observed  the  King.  A  chance  of  mocking  an- 
other made  him  himself  again  as  no  other  cure  could. 
"Come,  lose  no  time."  Then  the  King  added,  "Take 
this  fellow  away  and  lock  him  up.  Mr.  Darrell,  see 
that  you  guard  him  well  and  let  nobody  come  near 
him." 

M.  de  Perrencourt  whispered. 

"Above  all,  let  him  speak  to  nobody.  He  must  tell 
what  he  knows  only  at  the  right  time,"  added  the 
King. 

"When  will  that  be?"  asked  Monmouth  audibly, 
yet  so  low  that  the  King  could  feign  not  to  hear  and 
smiled  pleasantly  at  his  son.  But  still  the  Duke  lin- 
gered, although  Buckingham  was  gone  and  Phineas 
Tate  had  been  led  out  between  his  custodians.  His 
eyes  sought  mine  and  I  read  an  appeal  in  them.  That 
he  desired  to  take  me  with  him  in  pursuit  of  Jonah 
Wall,  I  did  not  think;  but  he  desired  above  all  things 
to  get  me  out  of  that  room,  to  have  speech  with  me, 
to  know  that  I  was  free  to  work  out  the  scheme  which 
Buckingham  had  disclosed  to  me.  Nay,  it  was  not 
unlikely  that  his  search  for  Jonah  Wall  would  lead  him 
to  the  hostelry  of  the  Merry  Mariners  at  Deal.  And 
for  my  plan  too,  which  differed  so  little  yet  so  much 
from  his,  for  that  also  I  must  be  free.  I  rose  to  my 
feet,  delighted  to  find  that  I  could  stand  well  and  that 
my  pains  grew  no  more  severe  with  movement. 

"  I  am  at  your  Grace's  orders,"  said  I.  "  May  I 
ride  with  you,  sir?" 

The  King  looked  at  me  doubtfully. 

"  I  should  be  glad  of  your  company,"  said  the 
Duke,  "  if  your  health  allows." 

"  Most  fully,  sir,"  I  answered,  and  turning  to  the 
King  I  begged  his  leave  to  depart.  And  that  leave  I 
should,  as  I  think,  have  obtained,  but  for  the  fact  that 
once  again  M.  de  Perrencourt  whispered  to  the  King. 


M«  de  Perrencourt  Whispers.  209 

The  King  rose  from  his  seat,  took  M.  de  Perrencourt's 
arm  and  walked  with  him  to  where  his  Grace  stood. 
I  watched  them,  till  a  little  stifled  laugh  caught  my 
attention.  Madame's  face  was  merry,  and  hers  the 
laugh.  She  saw  my  look  on  her  and  laughed  again, 
raising  her  finger  to  her  lips  in  a  swift  stealthy  motion. 
She  glanced  round  apprehensively,  but  her  action  had 
passed  unnoticed ;  the  Duke  of  York  seemed  sunk  in 
a  dull  apathy,  Clifford  and  Arlington  were  busy  in 
conversation.  What  did  she  mean?  Did  she  confess 
that  I  held  their  secret  and  impose  silence  on  me  by  a 
more  than  royal  command,  by  the  behest  of  bright 
eyes  and  red  lips  which  dared  me  to  betray  their 
confidence?  On  the  moment's  impulse  I  bowed  as- 
sent ;  Madame  nodded  merrily  and  waved  a  kiss  with 
her  dainty  hand;  no  word  passed,  but  I  felt  that  I, 
being  a  gentleman,  could  tell  no  man  alive  what  I  sus- 
pected— aye,  what  I  knew,  concerning  M.  de  Perren- 
court. Thus  lightly  are  pledges  given  when  ladies 
ask  them. 

The  Duke  of  Monmouth  started  back  with  a  sudden 
angry  motion.  The  King  smiled  at  him :  M.  de  Per- 
rencourt laid  a  hand,  decked  with  rich  rings,  on  his 
lace  cuff.  Madame  rose,  laughing  still,  and  joined  the 
three.  I  cannot  tell  what  passed — alas,  that  the  mat- 
ters of  highest  interest  are  always  elusive  ! — but  a 
moment  later  Monmouth  fell  back  with  as  sour  a  look 
as  I  have  ever  seen  on  a  man's  face,  bowed  slightly 
and  not  over-courteously,  faced  round  and  strode 
through  the  doorway,  opening  the  door  for  himself. 
I  heard  Madame's  gay  laugh,  again  the  King  spoke, 
Madame  cried  "  Fie,"  and  hid  her  face  with  her  hand. 
M.  de  Perrencourt  advanced  towards  me  ;  the  King 
caught  his  arm.  "  Pooh,  he  knows  already,"  muttered 
M.  de  Perrencourt,  half  under  his  breath,  but  he  gave 
way,  and  the  King  came  to  me  first. 

"  Sir,"    said  he,  "  the  Duke  of  Monmouth  has  had 


210  Simon  Dale. 

the  dutiful  kindness  to  release  his  claim  on  your 
present  services  and  to  set  you  free  to  serve  me." 

I  bowed  very  low,  answering, — 

"  His  Grace  is  bountiful  of  kindness  to  me  and  has 
given  the  greatest  proof  of  it  in  enabling  me  to  serve 
your  Majesty." 

*'  My  pleasure  is,"  pursued  the  King,  "  that  you 
attach  yourself  to  my  friend  M.  de  Perrencourt  here, 
and  accompany  him  and  hold  yourself  at  his  disposal 
until  further  commands  from  me  reach  you." 

M.  de  Perrencourt  stepped  forward  and  addressed 
me. 

"  In  two  hours'  time,  sir,"  said  he,  "  I  beg  you  to  be 
ready  to  accompany  me.  A  ship  lies  yonder  at  the 
pier,  waiting  to  carry  his  Excellency,  M.  Colbert  de 
Croissy,  and  myself  to  Calais  to-night  on  business  of 
moment.  Since  the  King  gives  you  to  me,  I  pray 
your  company." 

"Till  then,  Mr.  Dale,  adieu,"  said  the  King.  "  Not 
a  word  of  what  has  passed  here  to-night  to  any  man 
— or  any  woman.  Be  in  readiness.  You  know  enough, 
I  think,  to  tell  you  that  you  receive  a  great  honour  in 
M.  de  Perrencourt's  request.  Your  discretion  will 
show  your  worthiness.  Kiss  Madame's  hand  and 
leave  us." 

They  both  smiled  at  me  and  I  stood  half  bewildered. 
"  Go,"  said  M.  de  Perrencourt  with  a  laugh,  clapping 
me  on  the  shoulder.  The  two  turned  away.  Madame 
held  out  her  hand  towards  me,  I  bent  and  kissed  it. 

"  Mr.  Dale,"  said  she,  "you  have  all  the  virtues." 

"Alas,  Madame,  I  fear  you  don't  mean  to  com- 
mend me." 

"  Yes,  for  a  rarity,  at  least.     But  you  have  one  vice." 

"  It  shall  be  mended,  if  your  Royal  Highness  will 
tell  its  name." 

"  Nay,  I  shall  increase  it  by  naming  it.  But  here  it 
is;  your  eyes  are  too  wide  open,  Mr.  Dale." 


M.  de  Perrencourt  Whispers.  2 1 1 

"  My  mother,  Madame,  used  to  accuse  me  of  a  trick 
of  keeping  them  half  shut." 

"  Your  mother  had  not  seen  you  at  Court,  sir." 

"  True,  Madame,  nor  had  my  eyes  beheld  your 
Royal  Highness." 

She  laughed,  pleased  with  a  compliment  which  was 
well  in  the  mode  then,  though  my  sons  may  ridicule 
it,  but  as  she  turned  away,  she  added, — 

"  I  shall  not  be  with  you  to-night,  and  M.  de  Per- 
rencourt hates  a  staring  eye." 

I  was  warned  and  I  was  grateful.  But  there  I 
stopped.  Since  Heaven  had  given  me  my  eyes,  noth- 
ing on  earth  could  prevent  them  opening  when  matter 
worth  the  looking  was  presented.  And  perhaps  they 
might  be  open,  and  yet  seem  shut  to  M.  de  Perren- 
court. With  a  final  salute  to  the  exalted  company  I 
went  out  ;  as  I  went  they  resumed  their  places  at  the 
table,  M.  de  Perrencourt  saying,  "  Come,  let  us  finish. 
I  must  be  away  before  dawn." 

I  returned  to  my  quarters  in  no  small  turmoil  ;  yet 
my  head,  though  it  still  ached  sorely  from  the  effect 
of  tasting  that  draught  so  fortunately  dashed  from  my 
hand,  was  clear  enough,  and  1  could  put  together  all 
the  pieces  of  the  puzzle  save  one.  But  that  one 
chanced  to  be  of  some  moment  to  me,  for  it  was  my- 
self. The  business  with  the  King  which  had  brought 
M.  de  Perrencourt  so  stealthily  to  Dover  was  finished, 
or  was  even  now  being  accomplished ;  his  presence 
and  authority  had  reinforced  Madame's  persuasions  and 
the  treaty  was  made.  But  in  these  high  affairs  I  had 
no  place.  If  I  would  find  my  work  I  must  look  else- 
where— to  the  struggle  that  had  arisen  between  M.  de 
Perrencourt  and  his  Grace  the  Duke  of  Monmouth,  in 
which  the  stakes  were  not  wars  or  religions,  and  the 
quarrel  of  simpler  nature.  In  that  fight  Louis  (for  I 
did  not  trouble  to  maintain  his  disguise  in  my  thoughts) 
had  won,  as  he  was  certain  to  win,  if  he  put  forth  his 


an  Simon  Dale, 

strength.  My  heart  was  sore  for  Mistress  Barbara, 
I  knew  that  she  was  to  be  the  spoil  of  the  French 
King's  victory,  and  that  the  loss  to  the  beauty  of  his 
Court  caused  by  the  departure  of  Mile,  de  Qu6rouaille 
was  to  find  compensation.  But  still  where  was  my 
part  ?  I  saw  only  one  thing,  that  Louis  had  taken  a 
liking  for  me,  and  might  well  choose  me  as  his  instru- 
ment, if  an  instrument  were  needed.  But  for  what 
and  where  it  was  needed  I  could  not  conceive;  since 
all  France  was  under  his  feet  and  a  thousand  men 
would  spring  up  to  do  his  bidding  at  a  word — aye,  let 
the  bidding  be  what  it  might  and  the  task  as  disgrace- 
ful as  you  will.  What  were  the  qualities  in  me  or  in  my 
condition  that  dictated  his  choice  baffled  conjecture. 

Suddenly  came  a  low  knock  on  the  door.  I  opened 
it  and  a  man  slipped  in  quickly  and  covertly.  To  my 
amazement  I  saw  Carford.  He  had  kept  much  out  of 
sight  lately;  I  supposed  that  he  had  discovered  all  he 
wanted  from  Monmouth's  ready  confidence,  and  had 
carried  his  ill-won  gains  to  his  paymaster.  But,  sup- 
posing that  he  would  keep  up  the  comedy,  I  said 
stiffly, — 

"You  come  to  me  from  the  Duke  of  Monmouth, 
my  lord  ?  " 

He  was  in  no  mood  for  pretence  to-night.  He  was 
in  a  state  of  great  excitement,  and,  brushing  aside  all 
reserve,  made  at  once  for  the  point. 

"  I  am  come,"  said  he,  "  to  speak  a  word  with  you. 
In  an  hour  you're  to  sail  for  France  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  I.     "  Those  are  the  King's  orders." 

"  But  in  an  hour  you  could  be  so  far  from  here  that 
he  with  whom  you  go  could  not  wait  for  your  return." 

"  Well,  my  lord  ?  " 

"  To  be  brief,  what's  your  price  to  fly  and  not  to 
sail  ?  " 

We  were  standing,  facing  one  another.  I  answered 
him  slowly,  trying  to  catch  his  purpose. 


M.  de  Perrencourt  Whispers.  2 13 

"Why  are  you  willing  to  pay  me  a  price?"  said  I. 
"  For  it's  you  who  pays?  " 

"  Yes,  I  pay.  Come,  man,  you  know  why  you  go 
and  who  goes  with  you  ?  " 

"  M.  de  Perrencourt  and  M.  Colbert  go,"  said  I. 
"  Why  I  go,  I  don't  know." 

"  Nor  who  else  goes  ? "  he  asked,  looking  in  my 
eyes.  I  paused  for  a  moment  and  then  answered, — 

"  Yes,  she  goes." 

"And  you  know  for  what  purpose?" 

"  I  can  guess  the  purpose." 

"  Well,  I  want  to  go  in  your  place.  I  have  done 
with  that  fool  Monmouth,  and  the  French  King 
would  suit  me  well  for  a  master." 

"  Then  ask  him  to  take  you  also." 

"  He  will  not ;  he'll  rather  take  you." 

"Then  I'll  go,"  said  I. 

He  drew  a  step  nearer  to  me.  I  watched  him 
closely,  for,  on  my  life,  I  did  not  know  in  what  mood 
he  was,  and  his  honour  was  ill  to  lean  on  as  a  waving 
reed. 

"  What  will  you  gain  by  going?  "  he  asked.  "  And 
if  you  fly,  he  will  take  me.  Somebody  he  must 
take." 

"  Is  not  M.  Colbert  enough  ?  " 

He  looked  at  me  suspiciously,  as  though  he  thought 
that  I  assumed  ignorance. 

"You  know  very  well  that  Colbert  wouldn't  serve 
his  purpose." 

"  By  my  faith,"  I  cried,  "  I  don't  know  what  his 
purpose  is." 

"  You  swear  it  ?  "  he  asked,  in  distrust  and  amaze- 
ment. 

"  Most  willingly,"  I  answered.     "  It  is  simple  truth." 

He  gazed  at  me  still  as  though  but  half  convinced. 

"  Then  what's  your  purpose  in  going  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  I   obey  my  orders.     Yet  I  have  a   purpose,    and 


214  Simon  Dale. 

one  I  had  rather  trust  with  myself  than  with  you,  my 
lord." 

"  Pray,  sir,  what  is  it  ?  " 

"  To  serve  and  guard  the  lady  who  goes  also." 

After  a  moment  of  seeming  surprise,  he  broke  into 
a  sneering  laugh. 

"You  go  to  guard  her?  "  he  said. 

"  Her  and  her  honour,"  I  answered,  steadily.  "  And 
I  do  not  desire  to  resign  that  task  into  your  hands, 
my  lord." 

"What  will  you  do?  How  will  you  serve  her?" 
he  asked. 

A  sudden  suspicion  of  him  seized  me.  His  manner 
had  changed  to  a  forced  urbanity  ;  when  he  was  civil 
he  was  treacherous 

"  That's  my  secret,  my  lord,"  I  answered.  "  I  have 
preparations  to  make.  I  pray  you,  give  me  leave." 
I  opened  the  door  and  held  it  for  him. 

His  rage  had  mastered  him  ;  he  grew  red  and  the 
veins  swelled  on  his  forehead. 

"  By  heaven,  you  sha'n't  go  !  "  he  cried,  and  clapped 
his  hand  to  his  sword. 

"  Who  says  that  Mr.  Dale  shall  not  go  ?  " 

A  man  stood  in  the  doorway,  plainly  attired,  wear- 
ing boots,  and  a  cloak  that  half  hid  his  face.  Yet  I 
knew  him  and  Carford  knew  him.  Carford  shrank 
back,  I  bowed,  and  we  both  bared  our  heads.  M.  de 
Perrencourt  advanced  into  the  room,  fixing  his  eyes 
on  Carford. 

"  My  lord,"  he  said,  "  when  I  decline  a  gentleman's 
services  I  am  not  to  be  forced  into  accepting  them, 
and  when  I  say  a  gentleman  shall  go  with  me,  he  goes. 
Have  you  a  quarrel  with  me  on  that  account  ?  " 

Carford  found  no  words  in  which  to  answer  him, 
but  his  eyes  told  that  he  would  have  given  the  world 
to  draw  his  sword  against  M.  de  Perrencourt,  or  indeed 
against  the  pair  of  us.  A  gesture  of  the  newcomer's 


M.  de  Perrencourt  Whispers.  a 1 5 

arm  motioned  him  to  the  door.  But  he  had  one  sen- 
tence more  to  hear  before  he  was  suffered  to  slink 
away. 

"  Kings,  my  lord,"  said  M.  de  Perrencourt,  "  may  be 
compelled  to  set  spies  about  the  persons  of  others. 
They  do  not  need  them  about  their  own." 

Carford  turned  suddenly  white  and  his  teeth  set.  I 
thought  that  he  would  fly  at  the  man  who  rebuked 
him  so  scornfully,  but  such  an  outbreak  meant  death  ; 
he  controlled  himself.  He  passed  out  and  Louis,  with 
a  careless  laugh,  seated  himself  on  my  bed.  I  stood 
respectfully  opposite  to  him. 

"  Make  your  preparations,"  said  he.  "  In  half-an- 
hour's  time  we  depart." 

I  obeyed  him,  setting  about  the  task  of  filling  my 
saddle-bags  with  my  few  possessions.  He  watched  me 
in  silence  for  awhile.  At  last  he  spoke. 

"  I  have  chosen  you  to  go  with  me,"  he  said,  "  be- 
cause although  you  know  a  thing,  you  don't  speak  of 
it,  and  although  you  see  a  thing,  you  can  appear 
blind." 

I  remembered  that  Madame  thought  my  blindness 
deficient,  but  I  received  the  compliment  in  silence. 

"These  great  qualities,"  he  pursued,  "make  a  man's 
fortune.  You  shall  come  with  me  to  Paris." 

"  To  Paris,  sir?  " 

"Yes.  I'll  find  work  for  you  there,  and  those  who 
do  my  work  lack  neither  reward  nor  honour.  Come, 
sir,  am  I  not  as  good  a  King  to  serve  as  another." 

"  Your  Majesty  is  the  greatest  Prince  in  Christen- 
dom," said  I.  For  such  indeed  all  the  world  held  him. 

"  Yet  even  the  greatest  Prince  in  Christendom  fears 
some  things,"  said  he,  smiling. 

"Surely  nothing,  sir." 

"  Why,  yes.  A  woman's  tongue,  a  woman's  tears,  a 
woman's  rage,  a  woman's  jealousy ;  I  say,  Mr.  Dale,  a 
woman's  jealousy." 


2 1 6  Simon  Dale* 

It  was  well  that  my  preparations  were  done,  or  they 
had  never  been  done.  I  was  staring  at  him  now  with 
my  hands  dropped  to  my  side. 

"  I  am  married,"  he  pursued.  "  That  is  little." 
And  he  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Little  enough  at  Courts,  in  all  conscience," 
thought  I ;  perhaps  my  face  betrayed  something  of 
the  thought,  for  King  Louis  smiled. 

"  But  I  am  more  than  a  husband,"  he  pursued.  ""  I 
am  a  lover,  Mr.  Dale." 

Not  knowing  what  comment  to  make  on  this,  I 
made  none.  I  had  heard  the  talk  about  his  infatua- 
tion, but  it  was  not  for  me  to  mention  the  lady's 
name.  Nor  did  the  King  name  her.  He  rose  and 
approached  me,  looking  full  in  my  face. 

"  You  are  neither  a  husband  nor  a  lover?  "  he  asked. 

"  Neither,  sir." 

"  You  know  Mistress  Quinton  ?  " 

"Yes,  sir." 

He  was  close  to  me  now,  and  he  whispered  to  me,  as 
he  had  whispered  to  the  King  in  the  Council  Chamber. 

"  With  my  favour  and  such  a  lady  for  his  wife,  a 
gentleman  might  climb  high." 

I  heard  the  words  and  I  could  not  repress  a  start. 
At  last  the  puzzle  was  pieced,  and  my  part  plain.  I 
knew  now  the  work  I  was  to  do,  the  price  of  the 
reward  I  was  to  gain.  Had  he  said  it  a  month  before, 
when  I  was  not  yet  trained  to  self-control  and  con- 
cealment, king  as  he  was,  I  would  have  drawn  my 
sword  on  him.  For  good  or  evil,  dissimulation  is  soon 
learnt.  With  a  great  effort  I  repressed  my  agitation, 
and  hid  my  disgust.  King  Louis  smiled  at  me,  deem- 
ing what  he  had  suggested  no  insult. 

"  Your  wedding  shall  take  place  at  Calais,"  he  said  ; 
and  I  (I  wonder  now  to  think  of  it)  bowed  and  smiled. 

"  Be  ready  in  a  quarter-of-an-hour,"  said  he,  and 
left  me  with  a  gracious  smile. 


M«  de  Perrencourt  Whispers,  a  17 

I  stood  there  where  I  was  for  the  best  part  of  the 
time  still  left  to  me.  I  saw  why  Carford  desired  the 
mission  on  which  I  went ;  why  Madame  bade  me  prac- 
tise the  closing  of  my  eyes ;  how  my  fortune  was  to 
come  from  the  hand  of  King  Louis.  An  English  gen- 
tleman and  his  wife  would  travel  back  with  the  King ; 
the  King  would  give  his  favour  to  both ;  and  the  lady 
was  Barbara  Quinton. 

I  turned  at  last  and  made  my  final  preparation.  It 
was  simple ;  I  loaded  my  pistol  and  hid  it  about  me, 
and  I  buckled  on  my  sword,  seeing  that  it  moved 
easily  in  the  sheath.  By  fortune's  will,  I  had  to 
redeem  the  pledge  which  I  had  given  to  my  lord ;  his 
daughter's  honour  now  knew  no  safety  but  in  my  arm 
and  wits.  Alas,  how  slender  the  chance  was,  and  how 
great  the  odds ! 

Then  a  sudden  fear  came  upon  me.  I  had  lived  of 
late  in  a  Court  where  honour  seemed  dead,  and  wo- 
men, no  less  than  men,  gave  everything  for  wealth  or 
place.  I  had  seen  nothing  of  her,  no  word  had  come 
from  her  to  me.  She  had  scorned  Monmouth,  but 
might  she  not  be  won  to  smile  on  M.  de  Perrencourt? 
I  drove  the  thought  from  me,  but  it  came  again  and 
again,  shaming  me  and  yet  fastening  on  me.  She 
went  with  M.  de  Perrencourt ;  did  she  go  willingly? 

With  that  thought  beating  in  my  brain  I  stepped 
forth  to  my  adventure. 


CHAPTER  XVL 
M.  de  Perrencourt  Wonders. 

As  I  walked  briskly  from  my  quarters  down  to  the 
sea,  M.  de  Perrencourt's  last  whisper,  "  With  my  fa- 
vour and  such  a  lady  for  his  wife  a  gentleman  might 
climb  high,"  echoed  in  my  ears  so  loudly  and  insist- 
ently as  to  smother  all  thought  of  what  had  passed  in 
the  Council  Chamber  and  to  make  of  no  moment  for 
me  the  plots  and  plans  alike  of  Kings,  Catholics  and 
Ranters.  That  night  I  cared  little  though  the  King 
had  signed  away  the  liberties  of  our  religion  and  his 
realm  ;  I  spared  no  more  than  a  passing  wonder  for 
the  attempt  to  which  conscience  run  mad  had  urged 
Phineas  Tate,  and  in  which  he  in  his  turn  had  involved 
my  simpleton  of  a  servant.  Let  them  all  plot  and 
plan :  the  issue  lay  in  God's  hand,  above  my  knowl- 
edge and  beyond  my  power.  My  task  was  enough 
and  more  than  enough  for  my  weakness ;  to  it  I  turned, 
with  no  fixed  design  and  no  lively  hope,  with  a  prayer 
for  success  only  and  a  resolve  not  to  be  King  Louis' 
catspaw.  A  month  ago  I  might  have  marvelled  that  he 
offered  such  a  part  to  any  gentleman :  the  illusions  of 
youth  and  ignorance  were  melting  fast  ;  now  I  was 
left  to  ask  why  he  had  selected  one  so  humble  for  a 
place  that  great  men  held  in  those  days  with  open 
profit  and  without  open  shame ;  aye,  and  have  held 
since.  For  although  I  have  lived  to  call  myself  a 
Whig,  I  do  not  hold  that  the  devil  left  England  for 
good  and  all  with  the  House  of  Stuart. 


M.  de  Perrencourt  Wonders.  219 

We  were  on  the  quay  now,  and  the  little  ship  lay 
ready  for  us.  A  very  light  breeze  blew  off  the  land, 
enough  to  carry  us  over  if  it  held,  but  promising  a 
long  passage ;  the  weather  was  damp  and  misty.  M. 
Colbert  had  shrugged  his  shoulders  over  the  prospect 
of  a  fog  ;  his  master  would  hear  of  no  delay,  and  the 
King  had  sent  for  Thomas  Lie,  a  famous  pilot  of  the 
Cinque  Ports,  to  go  with  us  till  the  French  coast 
should  be  sighted.  The  two  kings  were  walking  up 
and  down  together  in  eager  and  engrossed  conversa- 
tion. Looking  about,  I  perceived  the  figures  of  tv.  o 
women  standing  near  the  edge  of  the  water.  I  saw 
Colbert  approach  them  and  enter  into  conversation ; 
soon  he  came  to  me  and  with  the  smoothest  of  smiles 
bade  me  charge  myself  with  the  care  of  Mistress 
Quinton. 

"  Madame,"  said  he,  "  has  sent  a  discreet  and  trust- 
worthy waiting-woman  with  her,  but  a  lady  needs  a 
squire,  and  we  are  still  hampered  by  business."  With 
which  he  went  off  to  join  his  master,  bestowing  an- 
other significant  smile  on  me. 

I  lost  no  time  in  approaching  Barbara.  The  woman 
with  her  was  stout  and  short,  having  a  broad  hard  face  ; 
she  stood  by  her  charge  square  and  sturdy  as  a  sol- 
dier on  guard.  Barbara  acknowledged  my  salutation 
stiffly ;  she  was  pale  and  seemed  anxious,  but  in  no 
great  distress  or  horror.  But  did  she  know  what  was 
planned  for  her  or  the  part  I  was  to  play  ?  The  first 
words  she  spoke  showed  me  that  she  knew  nothing, 
for  when  I  began  to  feel  my  way,  saying,  "  The  wind 
is  fair  for  us,"  she  started,  crying,  "For  us?  Why, 
are  you  coming  with  us  ?  " 

I  glanced  at  the  waiting-woman  who  stood  stolidly 
by. 

"  She  understands  no  English,"  said  Barbara,  catch- 
ing my  meaning.  "  You  can  speak  freely.  Why  are 
you  coming?" 


320  Simon  Dale. 

"  Nay,  but  why  are  you  going?  " 

She  answered  me  with  a  touch  of  defiance  in  her 
voice. 

"  The  Duchess  of  York  is  to  return  with  Madame 
on  a  visit  to  the  French  Court,  and  I  go  to  prepare 
for  her  coming." 

So  this  was  the  story  by  which  they  were  inducing 
her  to  trust  herself  in  their  hands.  Doubtless  they 
might  have  forced  her,  but  deceit  furnished  a  better 
way.  Yet  agitation  had  mingled  with  defiance  in  her 
voice.  In  an  instant  she  went  on, — 

"You  are  coming,  in  truth  are  you?  Don't  jest 
with  me." 

"  Indeed  I'm  coming,  madame.  I  hope  my  com- 
pany is  to  your  liking?  " 

"  But  why,  why  ?  " 

"  M.  de  Perrencourt  has  one  answer  to  that  ques- 
tion and  I  another." 

Her  eyes  questioned  me,  but  she  did  not  put  her 
question  into  words.  With  a  little  shiver  she  said, — 

"  I  am  glad  to  be  quit  of  this  place." 

"  You're  right  in  that,"  I  answered,  gravely. 

Her  cheek  flushed  and  her  eyes  fell  to  the  ground. 

"  Yes,"  she  murmured. 

"  But  Dover  Castle  is  not  the  only  place  where  dan- 
ger lies,"  said  I. 

"  Madame  has  sworn — "  she  began,  impetuously. 

"And  M.  de  Perrencourt?"  I  interrupted. 

"  He — he  gave  his  word  to  his  sister,"  she  said,  in 
a  very  low  voice.  Then  she  stretched  her  hand  out 
towards  me,  whispering,  "  Simon,  Simon  !  " 

I  interpreted  the  appeal,  although  it  was  but  an 
inarticulate  cry,  witnessing  to  a  fear  of  dangers  un- 
known. The  woman  had  edged  a  little  away,  but  still 
kept  a  careful  watch.  I  paid  no  heed  to  her.  I  must 
give  my  warning. 

"  My  services  are  always  at  your  disposal,  Mistress 


M.  de  Perrencourt  Wonders*  221 

Barbara,"  said  I,  "even  without  the  right  to  them 
that  M.  de  Perrencourt  purposes  to  give  you." 

"  I  don't  understand.  How  can  he — ?  Why,  you 
wouldn't  enter  my  service?" 

She  laughed  a  little  as  she  made  this  suggestion,  but 
there  was  an  eagerness  in  her  voice  ;  my  heart  an- 
swered to  it,  for  I  saw  that  she  found  comfort  in  the 
thought  of  my  company. 

"  M.  de  Perrencourt,"  said  I,  "  purposes  that  I 
should  enter  your  service,  and  his  also." 

"Mine  and  his?"  she  murmured,  puzzled  and 
alarmed. 

I  did  not  know  how  to  tell  her,  I  was  ashamed. 
But  the  last  moments  fled  and  she  must  know  before 
we  were  at  sea. 

"  Yonder,  where  we're  going,"  I  said,  "  the  word  of 
M.  de  Perrencourt  is  law  and  his  pleasure  right." 

She  took  alarm  and  her  voice  trembled. 

"  He  has  promised — Madame  told  me,"  she  stam- 
mered. "  Ah,  Simon,  must  I  go  ?  Yet  I  should  be 
worse  here." 

"  You  must  go.  What  can  we  do  here  ?  I  go  will- 
ingly." 

"  For  what  ?  " 

"  To  serve  you,  if  it  be  in  my  power.  Will  you 
listen?" 

"Quick,  quick.     Tell  me!" 

"  Of  all  that  he  swore,  he  will  observe  nothing. 
Hush,  don't  cry  out.  Nothing." 

I  feared  that  she  would  fall,  for  she  reeled  where 
she  stood.  I  dared  not  support  her 

"  If  he  asks  a  strange  thing,  agree  to  it.  It's  the 
only  way." 

"  What  ?     What  will  he  ask  ?  " 

"  He  will  propose  a  husband  to  you." 

She  tore  at  the  lace  wrapping  about  her  throat  as 
though  it  were  choking  her  ;  her  eyes  were  fixed  on 


323  Simon  Dale. 

mine.  I  answered  her  gaze  with  a  steady  regard,  and 
her  cheek  grew  red  with  a  hot  blush. 

"  His  motive  you  may  guess,"  said  I.  "  There  is 
convenience  in  a  husband." 

I  had  put  it  at  last  plainly  enough,  and  when  I  had 
said  it  I  averted  my  eyes  from  hers. 

"  I  won't  go,"  I  heard  her  gasp.  "I'll  throw  myself 
at  the  King's  feet." 

"  He'll  make  a  clever  jest  on  you,"  said  I,  bitterly. 

"  I'll  implore  M.  de  Perrencourt " 

"  His  answer  will  be — polite." 

For  a  while  there  was  silence.  Then  she  spoke 
again  in  a  low  whisper ;  her  voice  now  sounded  hard 
and  cold,  and  she  stood  rigid. 

"Who  is  the  man?"  she  asked.  Then  she  broke 
into  a  sudden  passion,  and,  forgetting  caution,  seized 
me  by  the  arm,  whispering,  "  Have  you  your  sword  ?  " 

"  Aye,  it  is  here." 

"  Will  you  use  it  for  me  ?  " 

"At  your  bidding." 

"  Then  use  it  on  the  body  of  the  man." 

"  I'm  the  man,"  said  I. 

"You,  Simon !  " 

Now  what  a  poor  thing  is  this  writing,  and  how 
small  a  fragment  of  truth  can  it  hold !  "  You, 
Simon  !  "  The  words  are  nothing,  but  they  came  from 
her  lips  full-charged  with  wonder,  most  incredulous, 
yet  coloured  with  sudden  hope  of  deliverance.  She 
doubted,  yet  she  caught  at  the  strange  chance.  Nay, 
there  was  more  still,  but  what  I  could  not  tell ;  for 
her  eyes  lit  up  with  a  sudden  sparkle,  which  shone  a 
brief  moment  and  then  was  screened  by  drooping  lids. 

"That  is  why  I  go,"  said  I.  "With  M.  de  Pen-en- 
court's  favour  and  such  a  lady  for  my  wife  I  might 
climb  high.  So  whispered  M.  de  Perrencourt  himself." 

"  You  !  "  she  murmured  again  ;  and  again  her  cheek 
was  red. 


M.  de  Perrencourt  Wonders.  223 

"  We  must  not  reach  Calais,  if  we  can  escape  by  the 
way.  Be  near  me  always  on  the  ship,  fortune  may 
give  us  a  chance.  And  if  we  come  to  Calais,  be  near 
me  while  you  can." 

"  But  if  we  can't  escape  ?  " 

I  was  puzzled  by  her.  It  must  be  that  she  found 
in  my  company  new  hope  of  escape.  Hence  came 
the  light  in  her  eyes,  and  the  agitation  which  seemed 
to  show  excitement  rather  than  fear.  But  I  had  no 
answer  to  her  question,  "  If  we  can't  escape  ?  " 

Had  I  been  ready  with  fifty  answers,  time  would 
have  failed  for  one.  M.  Colbert  called  to  me.  The 
King  was  embracing  his  guest  for  the  last  time ;  the 
sails  were  spread  ;  Thomas  Lie  was  at  the  helm.  I 
hastened  to  obey  M.  Colbert's  summons.  He  pointed 
to  the  King ;  going  forward,  I  knelt  and  kissed  the 
hand  extended  to  me.  Then  I  rose  and  stood  for  a 
moment,  in  case  it  should  be  the  King's  pleasure  to 
address  me.  M.  de  Perrencourt  was  by  his  side. 

The  King's  face  wore  a  smile  and  the  smile  broad- 
ened as  he  spoke  to  me. 

"  You're  a  wilful  man,  Mr.  Dale,"  said  he,  "  but 
fortune  is  more  wilful  still.  You  would  not  woo  her, 
therefore  woman-like  she  loves  you.  You  were  stub- 
born, but  she  is  resolute  to  overcome  your  stubborn- 
ness. But  don't  try  her  too  far.  She  stands  waiting 
for  you,  open-armed.  Isn't  it  so,  my  brother?" 

"Your  Majesty  speaks  no  more  than  truth,"  an- 
swered M.  de  Perrencourt. 

"  Will  you  accept  her  embraces  ?  "  asked  the  King. 

I  bowed  very  low  and  raised  my  head  with  a  cheer- 
ful and  gay  smile. 

"  Most  willingly,"  I  answered. 

"  And  what  of  reservations,  Mr.  Dale  ?  " 

"  May  it  please  your  Majesty,  they  do  not  hold 
across  the  water." 

"  Good.  My  brother  is  more  fortunate  than  I. 
God  be  with  you,  Mr.  Dale." 


224  Simon  Dale* 

At  that  I  smiled  again.  And  the  King  smiled. 
My  errand  was  a  strange  one  to  earn  a  benediction. 
"  Be  off  with  you,"  he  said,  with  an  impatient  laugh. 
"  A  man  must  pick  his  words  in  talking  with  you." 
A  gesture  of  his  hand  dismissed  me.  I  went  on  board 
and  watched  him  standing  on  the  quay  as  Thomas 
Lie  steered  us  out  of  harbour  and  laid  us  so  as  to 
catch  the  wind.  As  we  moved  the  King  turned  and 
began  to  mount  the  hill. 

We  moved,  but  slowly.  For  an  hour  we  made  way. 
All  this  while  I  was  alone  on  deck,  except  for  the  crew 
and  Thomas  Lie.  The  rest  had  gone  below;  I  had 
offered  to  follow,  but  a  gesture  from  M.  Colbert  sent 
me  back.  The  sense  of  helplessness  was  on  me,  over- 
whelming and  bitter.  When  the  time  came  for  my 
part  I  should  be  sent  for,  until  then  none  had  need  of 
me.  I  could  guess  well  enough  what  was  passing 
below,  and  I  found  no  comfort  in  the  knowledge  of  it. 
Up  and  down  I  walked  quickly,  as  a  man  torn  and 
tormented  with  thoughts  that  his  steps,  "however 
hasty,  cannot  outstrip.  The  crew  stared  at  me,  the 
pilot  himself  spared  a  glance  of  amused  wonder  at  the 
man  who  strode  to  and  fro  so  restlessly.  Once  I 
paused  at  the  stern  of  the  ship,  where  Lie's  boat, 
towed  behind  us,  cut  through  the  water  as  a  diamond 
cuts  a  pane  of  glass.  For  an  instant  I  thought  of 
leaping  in  and  making  a  bid  for  liberty  alone.  The 
strange  tone  in  which  "You,  Simon!"  had  struck 
home  to  my  heart  forbade  me.  But  I  was  sick  with 
the  world,  and  turned  from  the  boat  to  gaze  over  the 
sea.  There  is  a  power  in  the  quiet  water  by  night ; 
it  draws  a  man  with  a  promise  of  peace  in  the  soft  lap 
of  forgetfulness.  So  strong  is  the  allurement  that, 
though  I  count  myself  sane  and  of  sound  mind,  I  do 
not  love  to  look  too  long  on  the  bosom  of  deep  waters 
when  the  night  is  full ;  for  the  doubt  comes  then 
whether  to  live  is  sanity  and  not  rather  to  die  and 


M.  de  Peirencourt  Wonders.  225 

have  an  end  of  the  tossing  of  life  and  the  unresting 
dissatisfaction  of  our  state.  That  night  the  impulse 
came  on  me  mightily,  and  I  fought  it,  forcing  myself 
to  look,  refusing  the  weakness  of  flight  from  the  se- 
ductive siren.  For  I  was  fenced  round  with  troubles 
and  of  a  sore  heart ;  there  lay  the  open  country  and  a 
heart  at  peace. 

Suddenly  I  gave  a  low  exclamation;  the  water 
which  had  fled  from  us  as  we  moved,  seeming  glad  to 
pass  us  by  and  rush  again  on  its  race  undisturbed, 
stood  still.  From  the  swill  came  quiet,  out  of  the 
shimmer  a  mirror  disentangled  itself  and  lay  there  on 
the  sea,  smooth  and  bright.  But  it  grew  dull  in  an 
instant ;  I  heard  the  sails  flap,  but  saw  them  no  more. 
A  dense  white  vapour  settled  on  us,  the  length  of  my 
arm  bounded  my  sight,  all  movement  ceased  and  we 
lay  on  the  water,  inert  and  idle.  I  leant  beside  the 
gunwale,  feeling  the  fog  moist  on  my  face,  seeing  in 
its  baffling  folds  a  type  of  the  toils  that  bound  and 
fettered  me.  Now  voices  rose  round  me  and  again 
fell ;  the  crew  questioned,  the  Captain  urged,  I  heard 
Colbert's  voice,  as  he  hurried  on  deck.  The  sufficient 
answer  was  all  around  us ;  where  the  mist  was  there 
could  be  no  wind  ;  in  grumbling  the  voices  died  away. 

The  rest  of  what  passed  seems  even  now  a  strange 
dream  that  I  can  hardly  follow,  whose  issue  alone  I 
know,  which  I  can  recover  only  dimly  and  vaguely  in 
my  memory.  I  was  there  in  the  stern,  leaning  over, 
listening  to  the  soft  sound  of  the  sea  as  Thomas  Lie's 
boat  rolled  lazily  from  side  to  side  and  the  water  mur- 
mured gently  under  the  gentle  stroke.  Then  came 
voices  again  just  by  my  shoulder.  I  did  not  move. 
I  knew  the  tones  that  spoke,  the  persuasive,  command- 
ing tones,  hard  to  resist,  apt  to  compel.  Slowly  I 
turned  myself  round  ;  the  speakers  must  be  within 
eight  or  ten  feet  of  me,  but  I  could  not  see  them. 
Still  they  came  nearer.  Then  I  heard  the  sound  of  a 


226  Simon  Dale* 

sob,  and  at  it  sprang  to  rigidity,  poised  on  ready  feet, 
with  my  hand  on  the  hilt  of  my  sword. 

"You're  weary  now,"  said  the  smooth  strong  voice. 
"  We  will  talk  again  in  the  morning.  From  my  heart 
I  grieve  to  have  distressed  you.  Come,  we'll  find  the 
gentleman  whom  you  desire  to  speak  with  and  I'll 
trouble  you  no  more.  Indeed  I  count  myself  fortu- 
nate in  having  asked  my  good  brother  for  one  whose 
company  is  agreeable  to  you.  For  your  sake,  your 
friend  shall  be  mine.  Come,  I'll  take  you  to  him, 
and  then  leave  you." 

Barbara's  sobs  ceased ;  I  did  not  wonder  that  his 
persuasions  won  her  to  repose  and  almost  to  trust.  It 
seemed  that  the  mist  grew  a  little  less  thick ;  I  saw 
their  figures.  Knowing  that  at  the  same  moment  I 
must  myself  be  seen,  I  spoke  on  the  instant. 

"  I  am  here,  at  Mistress  Quinton's  service." 

M.  de  Perrencourt  (to  call  him  still  by  his  chosen 
name)  came  forward  and  groped  his  way  to  my  arm, 
whispering  in  French, — 

"  All  is  easy.  Be  gentle  with  her.  Why,  she  turns 
to  you  of  her  own  accord  !  All  will  go  smoothly." 

"  You  may  be  sure  of  it,  sir,"  I  said.  "  Will  you 
leave  her  with  me?" 

"Yes,"  he  answered.     "  I  can  trust  you,  can't  I?  " 

"  I  may  be  trusted  to  death,"  I  answered,  smiling 
behind  the  mist's  kind  screen. 

Barbara  was  by  his  side  now  ;  with  a  bow  he  drew 
back.  I  traced  him  as  he  went  towards  where  Lie 
stood,  and  I  heard  a  murmur  of  voices  as  he  and  the 
helmsman  spoke  to  one  another.  Then  I  heard  no 
more  and  lost  sight  of  him  in  the  thick  close  darkness. 
I  put  out  my  hand  and  felt  for  Barbara's,  it  came 
straight  to  mine. 

"  You — you'll  stay  with  me  ?  "  she  murmured.  "  I'm 
frightened,  Simon." 

As  she  spoke,  I  felt  on  my  cheek  the  cold  breath  of 


M.  de  Perrencourt  Wonders.  227 

the  wind.  Turning  my  full  face,  I  felt  it  more.  The 
breeze  was  rising  the  sails  flapped  again,  Thomas  Lie's 
boat  buffeted  the  waves  with  a  quicker  beat.  When 
I  looked  towards  her,  I  saw  her  face,  framed  in  mist, 
pale  and  wet  with  tears,  beseeching  me.  There  at 
that  moment,  born  in  danger  and  nursed  by  her  help- 
lessness, there  came  to  me  a  new  feeling,  that  was 
yet  an  old  one ;  now  I  knew  that  I  would  not  leave 
her.  Nay,  for  an  instant  I  was  tempted  to  aban- 
don all  effort  and  drift  on  to  the  French  shore,  look- 
ing there  to  play  my  own  game,  despite  of  her  and 
despite  of  King  Louis  himself.  But  the  risk  was  too 
desperate. 

"  No,  I  won't  leave  you,"  I  said,  in  low  tones  that 
trembled  under  the  fresh  burden  which  they  bore. 

But  yes,  the  wind  rose,  the  mist  began  to  lift,  the 
water  was  running  lazily  from  under  our  keel,  the  little 
boat  bobbed  and  danced  to  a  leisurely  tune. 

"  The  wind  serves,"  cried  Thomas  Lie.  "  We  shall 
make  land  in  two  hours,  if  it  hold  as  it  blows  now." 

The  plan  was  in  my  head.  It  was  such  an  impulse 
as  coming  to  a  man  seems  revelation  and  forbids  all 
questioning  of  its  authority.  I  held  Barbara  still  by 
the  hand  and  drew  her  to  me.  There,  leaning  over 
the  gunwale,  we  saw  Thomas  Lie's  boat  moving  after 
us.  His  sculls  lay  ready.  I  looked  in  her  eyes  and 
was  answered  with  wonder,  perplexity,  and  dawning 
intelligence. 

"  I  daren't  let  him  carry  you  to  Calais,"  I  whispered. 
"  We  should  be  helpless  there." 

"  But  you— it's  you." 

"  As  his  tool  and  his  fool,"  I  muttered.  Low  as  I 
spoke,  she  heard  me,  and  asked  despairingly, — 

"  What  then,  Simon  ?     What  can  we  do  ?  " 

"If  I  go  there,  will  you  jump  into  my  arms?  The 
distance  isn't  far." 

"  Into  the  boat !     Into  your  arms  in  the  boat  ?  " 


228  Simon  Dale* 

"  Yes.  I  can  hold  you.  There's  a  chance  if  we  go 
now,  now  before  the  mist  lifts  more." 

"If  we're  seen  ?  " 

"  We're  no  worse  off." 

"  Yes,  I'll  jump,  Simon." 

We  were  moving  now  briskly  enough,  though  the 
wind  came  in  fitful  gusts  and  with  no  steady  blast, 
and  the  mist  now  lifted,  now  again  swathed  us  in  close 
folds.  I  gripped  Barbara's  hand,  whispering,  "  Be 
ready,"  and,  throwing  one  leg  over  the  side,  followed 
with  the  other  and  dropped  gently  into  Thomas  Lie's 
boat.  It  swayed  under  me,  but  it  was  broad  in  the 
beam  and  rode  high  in  the  water;  no  harm  happened. 
Then  I  stood  square  in  the  bows  and  whispered 
"  Now ! "  For  the  beating  of  my  heart  I  scarcely 
heard  my  own  voice,  but  I  spoke  louder  than  I  knew. 
At  the  same  instant  that  Barbara  sprang  into  my  arms 
there  was  a  rush  of  feet  across  the  deck,  an  oath  rang 
loud  in  French,  and  another  figure  appeared  on  the 
gunwale,  with  one  leg  thrown  over.  Barbara  was  in 
my  arms.  I  felt  her  trembling  body  cling  to  mine, 
but  I  disengaged  her  grasp  quickly  and  roughly — for 
gentleness  asks  time  and  time  had  we  none — and  laid 
her  down  in  the  boat.  Then  I  turned  to  the  figure 
above  me.  A  momentary  glance  showed  me  the  face 
of  King  Louis.  I  paid  no  more  heed,  but  drew  my 
knife  and  flung  myself  on  the  rope  that  bound  the 
boat  to  the  ship. 

Then  the  breeze  dropped,  and  the  fog  fell  thick  and 
enveloping.  My  knife  was  on  the  rope  and  I  severed 
the  strands  with  desperate  strength.  One  by  one  I 
felt  them  go.  As  the  last  went  I  raised  my  head. 
From  the  ship  above  me  flashed  the  fire  of  a  pistol  and 
a  ball  whistled  by  my  ear.  Wild  with  excitement,  I 
laughed  derisively.  The  last  strand  was  gone,  slowly 
the  ship  forged  ahead  ;  but  then  the  man  on  the  gun- 
wale gathered  himself  together  and  sprang  across  the 


M.  de  Perrencourt  Wonders.  229 

water  between  us.  He  came  full  on  the  top  of  me, 
and  we  fell  together  on  the  floor  of  the  boat.  By  the 
narrowest  chance  we  escaped  foundering,  but  the 
sturdy  boat  proved  true.  I  clutched  my  assailant  with 
all  my  strength,  pinning  him  arm  to  arm,  breast  to 
breast,  shoulder  to  shoulder.  His  breath  was  hot  on 
my  face.  I  gasped  "  Row,  row."  From  the  ship 
came  a  sudden  alarmed  cry,  "  The  boat,  the  boat !  " 
But  already  the  ship  grew  dim  and  indistinct. 

"  Row,  row,"  I  muttered  ;  then  I  heard  the  sculls 
set  in  their  tholes  and  with  a  slow  faltering  stroke  the 
boat  was  guided  away  from  the  ship,  moving  nearly 
at  a  right  angle  to  it.  I  put  out  all  my  strength.  I 
was  by  far  a  bigger  man  than  the  King  and  I  did  not 
spare  him.  I  hugged  him  with  a  bear's  hug  and  his 
strength  was  squeezed  out  of  him.  Now  I  was  on  the 
top  and  he  below.  I  twisted  his  pistol  from  his  hand 
and  flung  it  overboard.  Tumultuous  cries  came  from 
the  blurred  mass  that  was  the  ship ;  but  the  breeze 
had  fallen,  the  fog  was  thick,  they  had  no  other  boat. 
The  King  lay  still.  "  Give  me  the  sculls,"  I  whis- 
pered. Barbara  yielded  them ;  her  hands  were  cold 
as  death  when  they  encountered  mine.  She  scrambled 
into  the  stern.  I  dragged  the  King  back — he  was 
like  a  log  now — till  he  lay  with  the  middle  of  his 
body  under  the  seat  on  which  I  was ;  his  face  looked 
up  from  between  my  feet.  Then  I  fell  to  rowing, 
choosing  no  course  except  that  our  way  should  be 
from  the  ship,  and  ready,  at  any  movement  of  the 
still  form  below  me,  to  drop  my  sculls  and  set  my 
pistol  at  his  head.  Yet  till  that  need  came  I  bent 
lustily  to  my  work,  and  when  I  looked  over  the  sea 
the  ship  was  not  to  be  seen,  but  all  round  hung  the 
white  vapour,  the  friendly  accomplice  of  my  enter- 
prise. 

That  leap  of  his  was  a  gallant  thing.  He  knew  that 
I  was  his  master  in  strength  and  that  I  stood  where 


23°  Simon  Dale. 

no  motive  of  prudence  could  reach  and  no  fear  restrain 
me.  If  I  were  caught,  the  grave  or  a  French  prison 
would  be  my  fate  ;  to  get  clear  off,  he  might  suppose 
that  I  should  count  even  the  most  august  life  in 
Christendom  well  taken.  Yet  he  had  leaped,  and  be- 
fore heaven  I  feared  that  I  had  killed  him.  If  it  were 
so,  I  must  set  Barbara  in  safety,  and  then  follow  him 
where  he  was  gone  ;  there  would  be  no  place  for  me 
among  living  men,  and  I  had  better  choose  my  own 
end  than  be  hunted  to  death  like  a  mad  dog.  These 
thoughts  spun  through  my  brain,  as  my  arms  drove 
the  blades  into  the  water,  on  an  aimless  course 
through  the  mist,  till  the  mass  of  the  ship  utterly 
disappeared  and  we  three  were  alone  on  the  sea. 
Then  the  fear  overcame  me ;  I  rested  on  my  oars, 
and,  leaning  over  to  where  Barbara  sat  in  the  stern, 
I  shaped  with  awe-struck  lips  the  question,  "  Is  he 
dead  ?  My  God,  is  he  dead  ?  " 

She  sat  there,  herself,  as  it  seemed,  half-dead.  But 
at  my  words  she  shivered  and  with  an  effort  mastered 
her  relaxed  limbs.  Slowly  she  dropped  on  her  knees 
by  the  King  and  raised  his  head  in  her  arms.  She 
felt  in  her  bosom  and  drew  out  a  flask  of  salts,  which 
she  set  to  his  nostrils.  I  watched  his  face  ;  the  mus- 
cles of  it  contracted  into  a  grimace,  then  were 
smoothed  again  to  calmness ;  he  opened  his  eyes. 
"Thank  God,"  I  muttered  to  myself;  and  the  peril  to 
him  being  gone  by,  I  remembered  our  danger,  and 
taking  out  my  pistol,  looked  to  it,  and  sat  dangling  it 
in  my  hand. 

Barbara,  still  supporting  the  King's  head,  looked  up 
at  me. 

"  What  will  become  of  us  ?  "  she  asked. 

"At  least  we  sha'n't  be  married  in  Calais,"  I  an- 
swered, with  a  grim  smile. 

"  No,"  she  murmured,  and  ben*  again  over  the 
King. 


M.  de  Perrencourt  Wonders.  231 

Xo\v  his  eyes  were  wide-opened,  and  I  fixed  mine 
on  them.  I  saw  the  return  of  consciousness  and  in- 
telligence ;  the  quick  glance  that  fell  on  me,  on  the 
oars,  on  the  pistol  in  my  hand,  witnessed  to  it.  Then 
he  raised  himself  on  his  elbow,  Barbara  drawing 
quickly  away,  and  so  rested  an  instant,  regarding  me 
still.  He  drew  himself  up  into  a  sitting  posture,  and 
seemed  as  though  he  would  rise  to  his  feet.  I  raised 
the  pistol  and  pointed  it  at  him. 

"  No  higher,  if  you  please,"  said  I.  "  It's  a  mat- 
ter of  danger  to  walk  about  in  so  small  a  boat,  and 
you  came  near  to  upsetting  us  before." 

He  turned  his  head  and  saw  Barbara,  then  gazed 
round  on  the  sea.  No  sail  was  to  be  seen  and  the  fog 
still  screened  the  boat  in  impenetrable  solitude.  The 
sight  brought  to  his  mind  a  conviction  of  what  his 
plight  was.  Yet  no  dismay  nor  fear  showed  in  his 
face.  He  sat  there,  regarding  me  with  an  earnest 
curiosity  ;  at  last  he  spoke. 

"  You  were  deluding  me  all  the  time  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Even  so,"  said  I,  with  an  inclination  of  my  head. 

"You  did  not  mean  to  take  my  offer?" 

"  Since  I  am  a  gentleman,  I  did  not." 

"  I  also  am  accounted  a  gentleman,  sir." 

"  Nay,  I  took  you  for  a  prince,"  said  I. 

He  made  me  no  answer,  but,  looking  round  him 
again,  observed, — 

"  The  ship  must  be  near.  But  for  this  cursed  fog 
she  would  be  in  sight." 

"  It's  well  for  us  she  isn't,"  I  said. 

"Why,  sir?"  he  asked,  brusquely. 

"  If  she  were,  there's  the  pistol  for  the  lady,  and  this 
sword  here  for  you  and  me,"  said  I,  coolly.  For  a 
man  may  contrive  to  speak  coolly,  though  his  bearing 
be  a  lie  and  his  heart  beat  quick. 

"  You  daren't,"  he  cried,  in  amazement. 

"  I  should  be  unwilling,"  I  conceded. 


232  Simon  Dale* 

For  an  instant  there  was  silence.  Then  came  Bar- 
bara's voice,  soft  and  fearful, — 

"  Simon,  the  fog  lifts." 

It  was  true.  The  breeze  blew  and  the  fog  lifted. 
Louis'  eyes  sparkled.  All  three  of  us,  by  one  impulse,, 
looked  round  on  the  sea.  The  fresh  wind  struck  my 
cheek  and  the  enveloping  folds  curled  lazily  away. 
Barbara  held  up  her  hand  and  pointed.  Away  on  the 
right,  dimly  visible,  just  detached  from  the  remaining 
clouds  of  mist,  was  a  dark  object,  sitting  high  on  the 
water.  A  ship  it  was,  in  all  likelihood  the  King's  ship. 
We  should  be  sighted  soon.  My  eyes  met  the  King's, 
and  his  were  exultant  and  joyful ;  he  did  not  yet  be- 
lieve that  I  would  do  what  I  had  said,  and  he  thought 
that  the  trap  closed  in  on  us  again.  For  still  the  mist 
rose  and  in  a  few  moments  they  on  the  ship  must  see 
us. 

"You  shall  pay  for  your  trick,"  he  said,  between  his 
teeth. 

"  It  is  very  likely,"  said  I.  "  But  I  think  that  the 
debt  will  be  paid  to  your  Majesty's  successor." 

Still  he  did  not  believe.  I  burst  into  a  laugh  of 
grim  amusement.  These  great  folk  find  it  hard  to  un- 
derstand how  sometimes  their  greatness  is  nothing, 
and  the  thing  is  man  to  man ;  but  now  and  then  for- 
tune takes  a  whim  and  teaches  them  the  lesson  for  her 
sport. 

"  But  since  you  are  a  king,"  said  I,  "  you  shall  have 
your  privilege.  You  shall  pass  out  before  the  lady. 
See,  the  ship  is  very  plain  now.  Soon  we  shall  be 
plain  to  the  ship.  Come,  sir,  you  go  first." 

He  looked  at  me  now,  puzzled  and  alarmed. 

"  I  am  unarmed,"  he  said. 

"  It  is  no  fight,"  I  answered.  Then  I  turned  to  Bar- 
bara. "  Go  and  sit  in  the  stern,"  I  said,  "  and  cover 
your  face  with  your  hands." 

"  Simon,  Simon,"  she  moaned,  but  she  obeyed  me, 


[ 


"HOW    WII.I.    Ynr    I>IK.  SIR?" — PAGE   233. 


M«  de  Perrencourt  Wonders.  233 

and  threw  herself  down,  burying  her  face  in  her 
hands.  I  turned  to  the  King. 

"  How  will  you  die,  Sir,"  said  I  quietly,  and,  as  I  be- 
lieve, in  a  civil  manner. 

A  sudden  shout  rang  in  my  ears.  I  would  not  look 
away  from  him,  lest  he  should  spring  on  me  or  fling 
himself  from  the  boat.  But  I  knew  whence  the  shout 
came,  for  it  was  charged  with  joy  and  the  relief  of  un- 
bearable anxiety.  The  ship  was  the  King's  ship  and 
his  servants  had  seen  their  master.  Yet  they  would 
not  dare  to  fire  without  his  orders,  and  with  the  risk 
of  killing  him  ;  therefore,  I  was  easy  concerning  mus- 
ket shot.  But  we  must  not  come  near  enough  for  a 
voice  to  be  heard  from  us,  and  a  pistol  to  carry  to  us. 

"  How  will  you  die  ? "  I  asked,  again.  His  eyes 
questioned  me.  I  added,  "  As  God  lives  I  will."  And 
I  smiled  at  him. 


CHAPTER  XVIL 
What  Befell  My  Last  Guinea, 

THERE  is  this  in  great  station,  that  it  imparts  to  a 
man  a  bearing  sedate  in  good  times  and  debonnaire  in 
evil.  A  king  may  be  unkinged,  as  befell  him  whom  in 
my  youth  we  called  the  Royal  Martyr,  but  he  need 
not  be  unmanned.  He  has  tasted  of  what  men  count 
the  best,  and  having  found  even  in  it  much  bitterness, 
turns  to  greet  fortune's  new  caprice  smiling  or  un- 
moved. Thus  it  falls  out  that  though  princes  live  no 
better  lives  than  common  men,  yet  for  the  most  part 
they  die  more  noble  deaths ;  their  sunset  paints  all 
their  sky,  and  we  remember  not  how  they  bore  their 
glorious  burden  but  with  what  grace  they  laid  it 
down.  Much  is  forgiven  to  him  who  dies  becomingly, 
and  on  earth  as  in  heaven  there  is  pardon  for  the  part- 
ing soul.  Are  we  to  reject  what  we  are  taught  that 
God  receives  ?  I  have  need  enough  of  forgiveness  to 
espouse  the  softer  argument. 

Now  King  Louis,  surnamed  the  Great,  having  more 
matters  in  his  head  than  the  scheme  I  thought  to 
baffle,  and  (to  say  truth)  more  ladies  in  his  heart 
than  Barbara  Quinton,  was  not  minded  to  die  for  the 
one  or  the  other.  But  had  you  been  there  (which 
heaven  for  your  sake  forbid,  I  have  passed  many  a 
pleasanter  night)  you  would  have  sworn  that  death  or 
life  weighed  not  a  straw  in  the  balance  with  him,  and 
that  he  had  no  thought  save  of  the  destiny  God  had 
marked  for  him  and  the  realm  that  called  him  master. 


What  Befell  My  Last  Guinea.  235 

So  lofty  and  serene  he  was,  when  he  perceived  my 
resolution  and  saw  my  pistol  at  his  head.  On  my 
faith,  the  victory  was  mine,  but  he  robbed  me  of  my 
triumph,  and  he,  submitting,  seemed  to  put  terms  on 
me  who  held  him  at  my  mercy.  It  is  all  a  trick  no 
doubt ;  they  get  it  in  childhood,  as  (I  mean  no  harm 
by  my  comparisons)  the  beggar's  child  learns  to  whine 
or  the  thief's  to  pick.  Yet  it  is  pretty.  I  wish  I  had  it ! 

"  In  truth,"  said  he,  with  a  smile  that  had  not  a  trace 
of  wryness,  "  I  have  chosen  my  means  ill  for  this  one 
time,  though  they  say  that  I  choose  well.  Well,  God 
rules  the  world  !  " 

"  By  deputy,  Sir,"  said  I. 

"And  deputies  don't  do  His  will  always?  Come, 
Mr.  Dale,  for  this  hour  you  hold  the  post  and  fill  it 
well.  Wear  this  for  my  sake  ; "  and  he  handed  across 
to  me  a  dagger  with  a  handle  richly  wrought  and 
studded  with  precious  stones. 

I  bowed  low ;  yet  I  kept  my  finger  on  the  trigger. 

"  Man,  I  give  you  my  word,  though  not  in  words," 
said  he,  and  I,  rebuked,  set  my  weapon  back  in  its 
place.  "  Alas,  for  a  sad  moment !  "  he  cried.  "  I 
must  bid  farewell  to  Mistress  Barbara.  Yet  (this  he 
added,  turning  to  her)  life  is  long,  madame,  and  has  in 
it  many  changes.  I  pray  you  may  never  need  friends, 
but  should  you,  there  is  one  ready  so  long  as  Louis  is 
King  of  France.  Call  on  him  by  the  token  of  his 
ring  and  count  him  your  humble  servant."  With  this 
he  stripped  his  finger  of  a  fine  brilliant,  and  sinking 
on  his  knee  in  the  boat,  took  her  hand  very  delicately, 
and,  having  set  the  ring  on  her  finger,  kissed  her  hand, 
sighed  lightly  yet  gallantly,  and  rose  with  his  eyes  set 
on  the  ship. 

"  Row  me  to  her,"  he  commanded  me,  shortly  but 
not  uncivilly;  and  I,  who  held  his  life  in  my  hands,  sat 
down  obediently  and  bent  to  my  oars.  In  faith,  I 
wish  I  had  that  air,  it's  worth  a  fortune  to  a  man ! 


236  Simon  Dale* 

Soon  we  came  to  the  side  of  the  ship.  Over  it 
looked  the  face  of  Colbert,  amazed  that  I  had  stolen 
his  king,  and  the  face  of  Thomas  Lie,  indignant  that 
I  had  made  free  with  his  boat ;  by  them  were  two  or 
three  of  the  crew  agape  with  wonder.  King  Louis 
paid  no  respect  to  their  feelings  and  stayed  their  ex- 
clamations with  a  gesture  of  his  hand.  He  turned  to 
me,  saying  in  low  tones  and  with  a  smile, — 

"You  must  make  your  own  terms  with  my  brother, 
sir.  It  has  been  hard  fighting  between  us,  and  I  am 
in  no  mood  for  generosity." 

I  did  not  know  what  to  answer  him,  but  I  stam- 
mered,— 

"  I  ask  nothing,  but  that  your  Majesty  should  re- 
member me  as  an  honest  man." 

"And  a  brave  gentleman,"  he  added  gravely,  with  a 
slight  inclination  of  his  head.  Then  he  turned  to  Bar- 
bara and  took  her  hand  again,  bowing  low,  and  saying, 
"  Madame,  I  had  meant  you  much  good  in  my  heart, 
and  my  state  forced  me  to  mean  you  some  evil.  I 
pray  you  remember  the  one  and  forget  the  other." 
He  kissed  her  hand  again  with  a  fine  grace.  It  was  a 
fair  sounding  apology  for  a  thing  beyond  defence. 
I  admired  while  I  smiled. 

But  Barbara  did  not  smile.  She  looked  up  in  his 
face,  then  dropped  on  her  knees  in  the  boat  and 
caught  his  hand,  kissing  it  twice  and  trying  to  speak  to 
him.  He  stood  looking  down  on  her;  then  he  said 
softly,  "Yet  I  have  forgiven  your  friend,"  and  gently 
drew  his  hand  away.  I  stood  up,  baring  my  head. 
He  faced  round  on  me  and  said  abruptly,  "  This  affair 
is  between  you  and  me,  sir." 

"I  am  obedient  to  a  command  I  did  not  need," 
said  I. 

"Your  pardon.  Cover  your  head.  I  do  not  value 
outward  signs  of  respect  where  the  will  is  wanting. 
Fare  you  well." 


What  Befell  My  Last  Guinea.  237 

At  a  sign  from  him  Colbert  stretched  out  a  hand. 
Not  a  question,  not  a  word,  scarcely  now  a  show  of 
wonder  came  from  any,  save  honest  Lie,  whose  eyes 
stood  out  of  his  head  and  whose  tongue  was  still  only 
because  it  could  not  speak.  The  King  leapt  lightly 
on  the  deck  of  his  ship. 

"  You'll  be  paid  for  the  boat,"  I  heard  him  say  to 
Lie.  "  Make  all  sail  for  Calais." 

None  spoke  to  him,  none  questioned  him.  He  saw 
no  need  for  explanation  and  accorded  no  enlighten- 
ment. I  marvelled  that  fear  or  respect  for  any  man 
could  so  bind  their  tongues.  The  King  waved  them 
away  ;  Lie  alone  hesitated,  but  Colbert  caught  him  by 
the  arm  and  drew  him  off  to  the  helm.  The  course 
was  given  and  the  ship  forged  ahead.  The  King  stood 
in  the  stern.  Now  he  raised  his  hat  from  his  head 
and  bowed  low  to  Mistress  Barbara.  I  turned  to  see 
how  she  took  the  salutation  ;  but  her  face  was  down- 
cast, resting  on  her  hands.  I  stood  and  lifted  my  hat ; 
then  I  sat  down  to  the  oars.  I  saw  King  Louis'  set 
courtly  smile,  and  as  our  ways  parted  asunder,  his  to 
France  where  he  ruled,  mine  to  England  where  I 
prayed  nothing  but  a  hiding-place,  we  sent  into  one 
another's  eyes  a  long  look,  as  of  men  who  have  meas- 
ured strength,  and  part  each  in  his  own  pride,  each  in 
respect  for  the  powers  of  his  enemy.  In  truth  it  was 
something  to  have  played  a  winning  hand  with  the 
Most  Christian  King.  With  regret  I  watched  him  go  ; 
though  I  could  not  serve  him  in  his  affairs  of  love,  I 
would  gladly  have  fought  for  him  in  his  wars. 

We  were  alone  now  on  the  sea;  dawn  was  breaking 
and  the  sky  cleared  till  the  cliffs  were  dimly  visible 
behind  us.  I  pulled  the  boat  round,  and  set  her  head 
for  home.  Barbara  sat  in  the  stern,  pale  and  still,  ex- 
hausted by  the  efforts  and  emotion  of  the  night.  The 
great  peril  and  her  great  salvation  left  her  numb 
rather  than  thankful ;  and  in  truth,  if  she  looked  into 


238  Simon  Dale* 

the  future,  her  joy  must  be  dashed  with  sore  appre- 
hension. M.  de  Perrencourt  was  gone,  the  Duke  of 
Monmouth  remained  ;  till  she  could  reach  her  father 
I  was  her  only  help,  and  I  dared  not  show  my  face  in 
Dover.  But  these  thoughts  were  for  myself,  not  for 
her,  and,  seeking  to  cheer  her,  I  leant  forward  and 
said, — 

"  Courage,  Mistress  Barbara."  And  I  added  again, 
"  At  least  we  sha'n't  be  married,  you  and  I,  in  Calais." 

She  started  a  little,  flushed  a  little,  and  answered 
gravely,— 

"  We  owe  Heaven  thanks  for  a  great  escape, 
Simon." 

It  was  true,  and  the  knowledge  of  its  truth  had 
nerved  us  to  the  attempt  so  marvellously  crowned 
with  success.  Great  was  the  escape  from  such  a  mar- 
riage, made  for  such  purposes  as  King  Louis  had 
planned.  Yet  some  feeling  shot  through  me  and  I 
gave  it  voice  in  saying, — 

"  Nay,  but  we  might  have  escaped  after  the  marriage 
also." 

Barbara  made  no  reply ;  for  it  was  none  to  say, 
"  The  cliffs  grow  very  plain." 

"But  that  wouldn't  have  served  our  turn,"  I  added, 
with  a  laugh.  "  You  would  have  come  out  of  the  bus- 
iness saddled  with  a  sore  encumbrance." 

"Shall  you  go  to  Dover?"  asked  Barbara,  seeming 
to  pay  no  heed  to  all  that  I  had  been  saying. 

"  Where  God  pleases,"  I  answered,  rather  peevishly. 
"  Her  head's  to  the  land,  and  I'll  row  straight  to  land  ! 
The  land  is  safer  than  the  sea." 

"  No  place  is  safe." 

"  None,"  I  answered.  But  then,  repenting  of  my 
surliness,  I  added,  "  And  none  so  perilous  that  you 
need  fear,  Mistress  Barbara." 

"  I  don't  fear  while  you're  with  me,  Simon,"  said 
she.  "You  won't  leave  me  till  we  find  my  father?" 


What  Befell  My  Last  Guinea.  239 

"  Surely  not,"  said  I.  "  Is  it  your  pleasure  to  seek 
him  ?" 

"  As  speedily  as  we  can,"  she  murmured.  "  He's  in 
London.  Even  the  King  won't  dare  to  touch  me 
when  I'm  with  him." 

"  To  London  then  !  "  I  said.  "  Can  you  make  out 
the  coast?" 

"There's  a  little  bay  just  ahead  where  the  cliff 
breaks ;  and  I  see  Dover  Castle  away  on  my  left 
hand." 

"  We'll  make  for  the  bay,"  said  I,  "  and  then  seek 
means  to  get  to  London." 

Even  as  I  spoke  a  sudden  thought  struck  me.  I 
laid  down  my  oars  and  sought  my  purse.  Barbara 
was  not  looking  at  me  but  gazed  in  a  dreamy  fashion 
towards  where  the  Castle  rose  on  its  cliff.  I  opened 
the  purse  ;  it  held  a  single  guinea ;  the  rest  of  my 
store  lay  with  my  saddle-bags  in  the  French  King's 
ship  ;  my  head  had  been  too  full  to  think  of  them. 
There  is  none  of  life's  small  matters  that  so  irks  a  man 
as  to  confess  that  he  has  no  money  for  necessary 
charges,  and  it  is  most  sore  when  a  lady  looks  to  him 
for  hers.  I,  who  have  praised  myself  for  forgetting 
how  to  blush,  went  red  as  a  cock's  comb  and  felt  fit  to 
cry  with  mortification.  A  guinea  would  feed  us  on 
the  road  to  London  if  we  fared  plainly  ;  but  Barbara 
could  not  go  on  her  feet. 

Her  eyes  must  have  come  back  to  my  sullen,  down- 
cast face,  for  in  a  moment  she  cried,  "  What's  the 
matter,  Simon  ?  " 

Perhaps  she  carried  money.  Well  then,  I  must  ask 
for  it.  I  held  out  my  guinea  in  my  hand. 

"  It's  all  I  have,"  said  I.  "  King  Louis  has  the 
rest." 

She  gave  a  little  cry  of  dismay.  "  I  hadn't  thought 
of  money,"  she  cried. 

"  I  must  beg  of  you." 


240  Simon  Dale* 

"  Ah,  but,  Simon,  I  have  none.  I  gave  my  purse  to 
the  waiting-woman  to  carry,  so  that  mine  also  is  in 
the  French  King's  ship." 

Here  was  humiliation !  Our  fine  schemes  stood 
blocked  for  the  want  of  so  vulgar  a  thing  as  money; 
such  fate  waits  often  on  fine  schemes,  but  surely  never 
more  perversely.  Yet  I  know  not  why,  I  was  glad 
that  she  had  none.  I  was  a  guinea  the  better  of  her; 
the  amount  was  not  large,  but  it  served  to  keep  me 
still  her  Providence,  and  that,  I  fear,  is  what  man  in 
his  vanity  loves  to  be  in  woman's  eyes  ;  he  struts  and 
plumes  himself  in  the  pride  of  it.  I  had  a  guinea,  and 
Barbara  had  nothing.  I  had  sooner  it  were  so,  than 
that  she  had  a  hundred. 

But  to  her  came  no  such  subtle  consolation.  To 
lack  money  was  a  new  horror,  untried,  undreamt  of; 
the  thing  had  come  to  her  all  her  days  in  such  meas- 
ure as  she  needed  it,  its  want  had  never  thwarted  her 
desires,  or  confined  her  purpose.  To  lack  the  price 
of  post-horses  seemed  to  her  as  strange  as  to  go  fast- 
ing for  want  of  bread. 

"  What  shall  we  do  ?  "  she  cried,  in  a  dismay  greater 
than  all  the  perils  of  the  night  had  summoned  to 
her  heart. 

We  had  about  us  wealth  enough  ;  Louis'  dagger 
was  in  my  belt,  his  ring  on  her  finger.  Yet  of  what 
value  were  they,  since  there  was  nobody  to  buy  them? 
To  offer  such  wares  in  return  for  a  carriage  would 
seem  strange  and  draw  suspicion.  I  doubted  whether 
even  in  Dover  I  should  find  a  Jew  with  whom  to 
pledge  my  dagger,  and  to  Dover  in  broad  day  I  dared 
not  go. 

I  took  up  my  oars  and  set  again  to  rowing.  The 
shore  was  but  a  mile  or  two  away.  The  sun  shone 
now  and  the  light  was  full,  the  little  bay  seemed  to 
smile  at  me  as  I  turned  my  head  ;  but  all  smiles  are 
short  for  a  man  who  has  but  a  guinea  in  his  purse. 


What  Befell  My  Last  Guinea*  241 

"  What  shall  we  do  ?  "  asked  Barbara,  again.  "  Is 
there  nobody  to  whom  you  can  go,  Simon?" 

There  seemed  nobody.  Buckingham  I  dared  not 
trust,  he  was  in  Monmouth's  interest ;  Darrell  had 
called  himself  my  friend  but  he  was  the  servant  of 
Lord  Arlington,  and  my  lord  the  Secretary  was  not  a 
man  to  trust.  My  messenger  would  guide  my  enemies 
and  my  charge  be  put  in  danger. 

"Is  there  nobody,  Simon?  "  she  implored. 

There  was  one,  one  who  would  aid  me  with  merry 
willingness,  and,  had  she  means  at  the  moment,  with 
lavish  hand.  The  thought  had  sprung  to  my  mind  as 
Barbara  spoke.  If  I  could  come  safely  and  secretly  to 
a  certain  house  in  a  certain  alley  in  the  town  of  Dover, 
I  could  have  money,  for  the  sake  of  old  acquaintance 
and  what  had  once  been  something  more,  between 
her  and  me.  But  would  Barbara  take  largesse  from 
that  hand  ?  I  am  a  coward  with  women  ;  ignorance  is 
fear's  mother  and,  on  my  life,  I  do  not  know  how  they 
will  take  this  thing  or  that,  with  scorn  or  tears  or 
shame  or  what,  or  again  with  some  surprising  turn  of 
softness  and  (if  I  may  make  bold  to  say  it),  a  pliability 
of  mind  to  which  few  of  us  men  lay  claim  and  none 
give  honour.  But  the  last  mood  was  not  Barbara's, 
and,  as  I  looked  at  her,  I  dared  not  tell  her  where  lay 
my'only  hope  of  help  in  Dover.  I  put  my  wits  to  work 
how  I  could  win  the  aid  for  her,  and  keep  the  hand  a 
secret.  Such  deception  would  sit  lightly  on  my  con- 
science. 

"  I  am  thinking,"  I  replied  to  her,  "  whether  there 
is  any  one,  and  how  I  might  reach  him,  if  there  is." 

"  Surely  there's  some  one  who  would  serve  you  and 
whom  you  could  trust  ?  "  she  urged. 

"  Would  you  trust  any  one  whom  I  trust  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  In  truth,  yes." 

"  And  would  you  take  the  service  if  I  would  ?  " 

"  Am  I  so  rich  that  I  can  choose  ?  "  she  said,  pite- 
ously. 


242  Simon  Dale* 

"  I  have  your  promise  to  it  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  answered  with  no  hesitation,  nay,  with  a 
readiness  that  made  me  ashamed  of  my  stratagem. 
Yet,  as  Barbara  said,  beggars  cannot  be  choosers  even 
in  their  stratagems,  and,  if  need  were,  I  must  hold  her 
to  her  word. 

Now  we  were  at  the  land  and  the  keel  of  our  boat 
grated  on  the  shingle.  We  disembarked  under  the 
shadow  of  the  cliffs  at  the  eastern  end  of  the  bay ;  all 
was  solitude,  save  for  a  little  house  standing  some  way 
back  from  the  sea,  half  way  up  the  cliff,  on  a  level 
platform  cut  in  the  face  of  the  rock.  It  seemed  a 
fisherman's  cottage ;  thence  might  come  breakfast, 
and  for  so  much  our  guinea  would  hold  good.  There 
was  a  recess  in  the  cliffs  and  here  I  bade  Barbara  sit 
and  rest  herself,  sheltered  from  view  on  either  side, 
while  I  went  forward  to  try  my  luck  at  the  cottage. 
She  seemed  reluctant  to  be  left  but  obeyed  me,  stand- 
ing and  watching  while  I  took  my  way,  which  I  chose 
cautiously,  keeping  myself  as  much  within  the  shadow 
as  might  be.  I  had  sooner  not  have  ventured  this 
much  exposure,  but  it  is  ill  to  face  starvation  for 
safety's  sake. 

The  cottage  lay  about  a  hundred  yards  off  and  soon 
I  approached  it.  It  was  hard  on  six  o'clock  now  and  I 
looked  to  find  the  inmates  up  and  stirring.  I  won- 
dered also  whether  Monmouth  were  gone  to  await 
Barbara  and  myself  at  the  Merry  Mariners  in  Deal ; 
alas,  we  were  too  near  the  trysting-place  !  Or  had  he 
heard  by  now  that  the  bird  was  flown  from  his  lure 
and  caged  by  that  M.  de  Perrencourt  who  had  treated 
him  so  cavalierly  ?  I  could  not  tell.  Here  was  the 
cottage ;  but  I  stood  still  suddenly,  amazed  and  cau- 
tious. For  there,  in  the  peaceful  morning,  in  the 
sun's  kindly  light,  there  lay  across  the  threshold  the 
body  of  a  man ;  his  eyes,  wide-opened,  stared  at  the 
sky  but  seemed  to  see  nothing  of  what  they  gazed  at, 


What  Befell  My  Last  Guinea.  H3 

his  brown  coat  was  stained  to  a  dark  rusty  hue  on  the 
breast,  where  a  gash  in  the  stuff  showed  the  passage 
of  a  sword.  His  hand  clasped  a  long  knife  and  his 
face  was  known  to  me.  I  had  seen  it  daily  at  my  up- 
rising and  lying-down.  The  body  was  that  of  Jonah 
Wall,  in  the  flesh  my  servant,  in  spirit  the  slave  of 
Phineas  Tate,  whose  teaching  had  brought  him  to 
this  pass. 

The  sight  bred  in  me  swift  horror  and  enduring 
caution.  The  two  Dukes  had  been  dispatched,  sorely 
against  their  will,  in  chase  of  this  man.  Was  it  to 
their  hands  that  he  had  yielded  up  his  life  and  by 
their  doing  that  he  lay  like  carrion?  It  might  well 
be  that  he  had  sought  refuge  in  this  cottage,  and 
having  found  there  death,  not  comfort,  had  been  flung 
forth  a  corpse.  I  pitied  him  ;  although  he  had  been 
party  to  a  plot  which  had  well-nigh  caused  my  own 
death  and  taken  no  account  of  my  honour,  yet  I  was 
sorry  for  him.  He  had  been  about  me  ;  I  grieved 
for  him  as  for  the  cat  on  my  hearth.  Well,  now  in 
death  he  warned  me  ;  it  was  some  recompense.  I 
lifted  my  hat  as  I  stole  by  him  and  slunk  round  to  the 
side  of  the  house.  There  was  a  window  there,  or 
rather  a  window-frame,  for  glass  was  there  none  ;  it 
stood  some  six  feet  from  the  ground  and  I  crouched 
beneath  it,  for  I  now  heard  voices  in  the  cottage. 

"  I  wish  the  rascal  hadn't  fought,"  said  one  voice. 
"  But  he  flew  at  me  like  a  tiger,  and  I  had  much  ado 
to  stop  him.  I  was  compelled  to  run  him  through." 

"Yet  he  might  have  served  me  alive,"  said  another. 

"Your  Grace  is  right.  For  although  we  hate  these 
foul  schemes,  the  men  had  the  root  of  the  matter  in 
them." 

"  They  were  no  Papists  at  least,"  said  the  second 
voice. 

"But  the  King  will  be  pleased." 

"  Oh,  a  curse  on  the  King,  although  he's  what  he  is 


244  Simon  Dale. 

to  me  I  Haven't  you  heard  ?  When  I  returned  to 
the  Castle  from  my  search  on  the  other  side  of  the 
town,  seeking  you  or  Buckingham — by  the  way,  where 
is  he?" 

"  Back  in  his  bed,  I  warrant,  sir." 

"  The  lazy  dog  !  Well,  then  they  told  me  she  was 
gone  with  Louis.  I  rode  on  to  tell  you,  for,  said  I, 
the  King  may  hunt  his  conspirators  himself  now.  But 
who  went  with  them?" 

"  Your  Grace  will  wonder  if  I  say  that  Simon  Dale 
was  the  man?" 

"  The  scoundrel !  It  was  he  !  He  has  deluded  us 
most  handsomely.  He  was  in  Louis'  pay,  and  Louis 
has  a  use  for  him !  I'll  slit  the  knave's  throat  if  I  get 
at  him." 

"  I  pray  your  Grace's  leave  to  be  the  first  man  at 
him." 

"  In  truth,  I'm  much  obliged  to  you,  my  Lord  Car- 
ford,"  said  I  to  myself,  under  the  window. 

"  There's  no  use  in  going  to  Deal,"  cried  Mon- 
mouth.  "  Oh,  I  wish  I  had  the  fellow  here !  She's 
gone,  Carford,  God's  curse  on  it,  she's  gone  !  The 
prettiest  wench  at  Court !  Louis  has  captured  her. 
'Fore  heaven,  if  only  I  were  a  king!" 

"  Heaven  has  its  own  times,  sir,"  said  Carford,  in- 
sidiously. But  the  Duke,  suffering  from  disappointed 
desire,  was  not  to  be  led  to  affairs  of  State. 

"  She's  gone,"  he  exclaimed,  again.  "  By  God, 
sooner  than  lose  her,  I'd  have  married  her." 

This  speech  made  me  start.  She  was  near  him ; 
what  if  she  had  been  as  near  him  as  I  and  had  heard 
those  words?  A  pang  shot  through  me,  and,  of  its 
own  accord,  my  hand  moved  to  my  sword-hilt. 

"  She  is  beneath  your  Grace's  station.  The  spouse 
of  your  Grace  may  one  day  be —  Carford  inter- 
rupted himself  with  a  laugh,  and  added,  "  what  God 
wills." 


What  Befell  My  Last  Guinea.  245 

"  So  may  Anne  Hyde,"  exclaimed  the  Duke.  "  But 
I  forget.  You  yourself  had  marked  her." 

"  I  am  your  Grace's  humble  servant  always,"  an- 
swered Carford,  smoothly. 

Monmouth  laughed.  Carford  had  his  pay,  no  doubt, 
and  I  trust  it  was  large  ;  for  he  heard  quietly  a  laugh 
that  called  him  what  King  Louis  had  graciously  pro- 
posed to  make  of  me.  I  am  glad  when  men  who  live 
by  dirty  ways  are  made  to  eat  dirt. 

"And  my  father,"  said  the  Duke,  "is  happy.  She 
is  gone,  Querouaille  stays;  why,  he's  so  enamoured 
that  he  has  charged  Nell  to  return  to  London  to-day, 
or  at  the  latest  by  to-morrow,  lest  the  French  lady's 
virtue  should  be  offended." 

At  this  both  laughed,  Monmouth  at  his  father,  Car- 
ford  at  his  king. 

"  What's  that?  "  cried  the  Duke,  an  instant  later. 

Now  what  disturbed  him  was  no  other  than  a  most 
imprudent  exclamation  wrung  from  me  by  what  I 
heard ;  it  must  have  reached  them  faintly,  yet  it  was 
enough.  I  heard  their  swords  rattle  and  their  spurs 
jingle  as  they  sprang  to  their  feet.  I  slipped  hastily 
behind  the  cottage.  But  by  good  luck  at  this  instant 
came  other  steps.  As  the  Duke  and  Carford  ran  to 
the  door,  the  owner  of  the  cottage  (as  I  judged  him  to 
be)  walked  up,  and  Carford  cried, — 

"Ah,  the  fisherman!  Come,  sir,  we'll  make  him 
show  us  the  nearest  way.  Have  you  fed  the  horses, 
fellow?" 

"  They  have  been  fed,  my  lord,  and  are  ready,"  was 
the  answer. 

I  did  not  hear  more  speech,  but  only  (to  my  relief) 
the  tramp  of  feet  as  the  three  went  off  together.  I 
stole  cautiously  out  and  watched  them  heading  for 
the  top  of  the  cliff.  Jonah  Wall  lay  still  where  he 
was,  and  when  the  retreating  party  were  out  of  sight, 
I  did  not  hesitate  to  search  his  body  for  money.  I 


246  Simon  Dale* 

had  supplied  his  purse,  but  now  his  purse  was  emptier 
than  mine.  Then  I  stepped  into  the  cottage,  seeking 
not  money  but  food.  Fortune  was  kinder  here  and 
rewarded  me  with  a  pasty,  half  eaten,  and  a  jug  of  ale. 
By  the  side  of  these  lay,  left  by  the  Duke  in  his 
wonted  profusion,  a  guinea.  The  Devil  has  whimsical 
ways ;  I  protest  that  the  temptation  I  suffered  here 
was  among  the  strongest  of  my  life  !  I  could  repay  the 
fellow  some  day ;  two  guineas  would  be  more  than 
twice  as  much  as  one' by  far.  Yet  I  left  the  pleasant 
golden  thing  there,  carrying  off  only  the  pasty  and  the 
ale ;  as  for  the  jug — a  man  must  not  stand  on  nice 
scruples  and  Monmouth's  guinea  would  more  than  pay 
for  all. 

I  made  my  way  quickly  back  to  Barbara  with  the 
poor  spoils  of  my  expedition.  I  rounded  the  bluff  of 
cliff  that  protected  her  hiding-place.  Again  I  stood 
amazed,  asking  if  fortune  had  more  tricks  in  her  bag 
for  me.  The  recess  was  empty!  But  a  moment  later 
I  was  reassured ;  a  voice  called  to  me,  and  I  saw  her 
some  thirty  yards  away,  down  on  the  sea-beach.  I  set 
down  pasty  and  jug  and  turned  to  watch.  Then  I 
perceived  what  went  on  ;  white  feet  were  visible  in  the 
shallow  water,  twinkling  in  and  out  as  the  tide  rolled 
out  and  back. 

"  I  had  best  employ  myself  in  making  breakfast 
read)',"  said  I,  turning  my  back.  But  she  called  out 
to  me  again,  saying  how  delightful  was  the  cool  water. 
So  I  looked,  and  saw  her  gay  and  merry.  Her  hat 
was  in  her  hand  now,  and  her  hair  blew  free  in  the 
breeze.  She  had  given  herself  up  to  the  joy  of  the 
moment.  I  rejoiced  in  a  feeling  which  I  could  not 
share ;  the  rebound  from  the  strain  of  the  night  left 
me  sad  and  apprehensive.  I  sat  down  and  rested  my 
head  on  my  hands,  waiting  till  she  came  back.  When 
she  came,  she  would  not  take  the  food  I  offered  her, 
but  stood  a  moment,  looking  at  me  with  puzzled  eyes, 
before  she  seated  herself  near. 


"What  Befell  My  Last  Guinea.  247 

"  You're  sad,"  she  said,  almost  as  though  in  accusa- 
tion. 

"Could  I  be  otherwise,  Mistress  Barbara?"  I  asked. 
"We're  in  some  danger,  and  what's  worse,  we've 
hardly  a  penny." 

"  But  we've  escaped  the  greatest  peril,"  she  reminded 
me. 

"  True,  for  the  moment." 

"  We— you  won't  be  married  to-night,"  she  laughed, 
with  rising  colour,  and  turning  away  as  though  a  tuft 
of  rank  grass  by  her  had  caught  her  attention,  and  for 
some  hidden  reason  much  deserved  it. 

"  By  God's  help  we've  come  out  of  that  snare," 
said  I,  gravely. 

She  said  nothing  for  a  moment  or  two  ;  then  she 
turned  to  me  again,  asking, — • 

"  If  your  friend  furnishes  money,  can  we  reach 
London  in  two  days?" 

"  I'm  sorry,'  I  answered,  "  but  the  journey  will  need 
nearer  three,  unless  we  travel  at  the  King's  pace  or 
the  Dake  of  Monmouth's." 

"  You  needn't  come  all  the  way  with  me.  Set  me 
safe  on  the  road,  and  go  where  your  business  calls 
you." 

"  For  what  crime  is  this  punishment  ?  "  I  asked,  with 
a  smile. 

"  No,  I'm  serious.  I'm  not  seeking  a  compliment 
from  you.  I  see  that  you're  sad.  You  have  been 
very  kind  to  me,  Simon.  You  risked  life  and  liberty 
to  save  me." 

"  Well,  who  could  do  less  ?  Besides,  I  had  given 
my  promise  to  my  lord,  your  father." 

She  made  no  reply,  and  I,  desiring  to  warn  her 
against  every  danger,  related  what  had  passed  at  the 
cottage,  omitting  only  Monmouth's  loud-mouthed 
threats  against  myself.  At  last,  moved  by  some  im- 
pulse of  curiosity  rather  than  anything  higher,  I  re- 


248  Simon  Dale. 

peated  how  the  Duke  had  said  that,  sooner  than  lose 
her  altogether,  he  would  have  married  her,  and  how 
my  Lord  Carford  had  been  still  his  humble  servant  in 
this  project  as  in  any  other.  She  flushed  again  as  she 
heard  me  and  plucked  her  tuft  of  grass. 

"  Indeed,"  I  ended,  "  I  believe  his  Grace  spoke  no 
more  than  the  truth ;  I've  never  seen  a  man  more  in 
love." 

"And  you  know  well  what  it  is  to  be  in  love,  don't 
you?" 

"  Very  well,"  I  answered,  calmly,  although  I 
thought  that  the  taunt  might  have  been  spared. 
"  Therefore  it  may  well  be  that  some  day  I  shall  kiss 
the  hand  of  her  Grace  the  Duchess." 

"  You  think  I  desire  it?  "  she  asked. 

"  I  think  that  most  ladies  would." 

"  I  don't  desire  it."  She  sprang  up  and  stamped 
her  foot  on  the  ground,  crying  again,  "Simon,  I  do 
not  desire  it.  I  wouldn't  be  his  wife.  You  smile  ! 
You  don't  believe  me?" 

"  No  offer  is  refused  until  it's  made,"  said  I,  and, 
with  a  bow  that  asked  permission,  I  took  a  draught  of 
the  ale. 

She  looked  at  me  in  high  anger,  her  cheek  suffused 
with  underlying  red,  and  her  dark  eyes  sparkling. 

"  I  wish  you  hadn't  saved  me,"  she  said,  in  a  fury. 

"  That  we  had  gone  forward  to  Calais  ?  "  I  asked, 
maliciously. 

"  Sir,  you're  insolent."  She  flung  the  reproof  at 
me  like  a  stone  from  a  catapult.  But  then  she  re- 
peated, "  I  wouldn't  be  his  wife." 

"  Well  then,  you  wouldn't,"  said  I,  setting  down  the 
jug  and  rising.  "  How  shall  we  pass  the  day?  For 
we  mustn't  go  to  Dover  till  nightfall." 

"  I  must  be  all  day  here  with  you  ?  "  she  cried,  in 
visible  consternation. 

"  You  must  be  all  day  here,  but  you  needn't  be  with 


What  Befell  My  Last  Guinea.  249 

me.  I'll  go  down  to  the  beach  ;  I  shall  be  within  hail, 
if  need  arises,  and  you  can  rest  here  alone." 

"  Thank  you,  Simon,"  she  answered,  with  a  most 
sudden  and  wonderful  meekness. 

Without  more  I  took  my  way  to  the  sea-shore  and 
lay  down  on  the  sun-warmed  shingle.  Being  very 
weary  and  without  sleep  now  for  six-and-thirty  hours, 
I  soon  closed  my  eyes,  keeping  the  pistol  ready  by 
my  side.  I  slept  peacefully  and  without  a  dream  ;  the 
sun  was  high  in  heaven,  when,  with  a  yawn  and  a 
stretching  of  my  limbs,  I  awoke.  I  heard,  as  I  opened 
my  eyes,  a  little  rustling  as  of  somebody  moving  ;  my 
hand  flew  to  the  butt  of  my  pistol.  But  when  I 
looked  round,  I  saw  Barbara  only.  She  was  sitting  a 
little  \vay  behind  me,  looking  out  over  the  sea.  Feel- 
ing my  gaze  she  looked  round. 

"  I  grew  afraid,  left  all  alone,"  she  said,  in  a  timid 
voice. 

"  Alas,  I  snored  when  I  should  have  been  on  guard  !  " 
I  exclaimed. 

"  You  didn't  snore,"  she  cried.  "  I — I  mean  not  in 
the  last  few  moments.  I  had  only  just  come  near 
you.  I'm  afraid  I  spoke  unkindly  to  you." 

"  I  hadn't  given  a  thought  to  it,"  I  hastened  to 
assure  her. 

"You  were  indifferent  to  what  I  said?"  she  cried. 

I  rose  to  my  feet  and  made  her  a  bow  of  mock  cere- 
mony. My  rest  had  put  me  in  heart  again  and  I  was 
in  a  mood  to  be  merry. 

"Nay,  madame,"  said  I,  "you  know  that  I  am  your 
devoted  servant  and  that  all  I  have  in  the  world  is 
held  at  your  disposal." 

She  looked  sideways  at  me,  then  at  the  sea  again. 

"  By  heaven,  it's  true !  "  I  cried.  "  All  I  have  is 
yours.  See!"  I  took  out  my  precious  guinea,  and, 
bending  on  my  knee  with  uncovered  head,  presented 
it  to  Mistress  Barbara. 


25°  Simon  Dale* 

She  turned  her  eyes  down  to  it  and  sat  regarding  it 
for  a  moment. 

"  It's  all  I  have,  but  it's  yours,"  said  I,  most  humbly. 

"Mine?" 

"  Most  heartily." 

She  lifted  it  from  my  palm  with  ringer  and  thumb 
very  daintily,  and  before  I  knew  what  she  was  doing, 
or  could  have  moved  to  hinder  her,  if  I  had  the  mind, 
she  raised  her  arm  over  her  head  and  with  all  her 
strength  flung  the  guinea  into  the  sparkling  waves. 

"  Heaven  help  us  !  "  I  cried. 

"  It  was  mine.  That's  what  I  chose  to  do  with  it," 
said  Barbara, 


CHAPTER  XVm. 

Some  Mighty  Silly  Business* 

"  IN  truth,  madame,"  said  I,  "it's  the  wont  of 
your  sex.  As  soon  as  a  woman  knows  a  thing  to  be 
hers  entirely,  she'll  fling  it  away."  With  this  scrap 
of  love's  lore  and  youth's  philosophy,  I  turned  my 
back  on  my  companion,  and,  having  walked  to  where 
the  battered  pasty  lay  beside  the  empty  jug,  sat  down 
in  high  dudgeon.  Barbara's  eyes  were  set  on  the  spot 
where  the  guinea  had  been  swallowed  by  the  waves, 
and  she  took  no  heed  of  my  remark  nor  of  my  going. 

Say  that  my  pleasantry  was  misplaced,  say  that  she 
was  weary  and  strained  beyond  her  power,  say  what 
you  will  in  excuse,  I  allow  it  all.  Yet  it  was  not 
reason  to  fling  my  last  guinea  into  the  sea.  A  flash  of 
petulance  is  well  enough  and  may  become  beauty  as 
summer  lightning  decks  the  sky,  but  fury  is  for  terma- 
gants, and  nought  but  fury  could  fling  my  last  guinea 
to  the  waves.  The  offence,  if  offence  there  were,  was 
too  small  for  so  monstrous  an  outburst.  Well,  if  she 
would  quarrel,  I  was  ready ;  I  had  no  patience  with 
such  tricks  ;  they  weary  a  man  of  sense  ;  women  serve 
their  turn  ill  by  using  them.  Also  I  had  done  her 
some  small  service.  I  would  die  sooner  than  call  it  to 
her  mind,  but  it  would  have  been  a  grace  in  her  to  re- 
member it. 

The  afternoon  came,  grew  to  its  height  and  waned 
as  I  lay,  back  to  sea  and  face  to  cliff,  thinking  now  of 
all  that  had  passed,  now  of  what  was  before  me,  spar- 


25*  Simon  Dale* 

ing  a  moment's  fitful  sorrow  for  the  poor  wretch  who 
lay  dead  there  by  the  cottage  door,  but  returning  al- 
ways in  resentful  mood  to  my  lost  guinea  and  Barbara's 
sore  lack  of  courtesy.  If  she  needed  me,  I  was  ready, 
but  heaven  forbid  that  I  should  face  fresh  rebuffs  by 
seeking  her !  I  would  do  my  duty  to  her  and  redeem 
my  pledge.  More  could  not  now  be  looked  for,  nay, 
by  no  possibility  could  be  welcome  ;  to  keep  away 
from  her  was  to  please  her  best.  It  was  well,  for  in 
that  her  mind  jumped  with  mine.  In  two  hours  now 
we  could  set  out  for  Dover. 

"  Simon,  I'm  hungry." 

The  voice  came  from  behind  my  shoulder,  a  yard  or 
two  away,  a  voice  very  meek  and  piteous,  eloquent  of 
an  exhaustion  and  a  weakness  so  great  that,  had  they 
been  real,  she  must  have  fallen  by  me,  not  stood  up- 
right on  her  feet.  Against  such  stratagems  I  would 
be  iron.  I  paid  no  heed  but  lay  like  a  log. 

"  Simon,  I'm  very  thirsty  too." 

Slowly  I  gathered  myself  up,  and,  standing,  bowed. 

"There's  a  fragment  of  the  pasty,"  said  I,  "but  the 
jug  is  empty." 

I  did  not  look  in  her  face  and  I  knew  she  did  not 
look  in  mine. 

"  I  can't  eat  without  drinking,"  she  murmured. 

"  I  have  nothing  with  which  to  buy  liquor,  and 
there's  nowhere  to  buy  it." 

"  But  water,  Simon?  Ah,  but  I  mustn't  trouble 
you." 

"  I'll  go  to  the  cottage  and  seek  some." 

"  But  that's  dangerous." 

"  You  shall  come  to  no  hurt." 

"  But  you  ?  " 

"  Indeed  I  need  a  draught  for  myself.  I  should 
have  gone  after  one  in  any  case." 

There  was  a  pause,  then  Barbara  said, — 

"  I  don't  want  it.     My  thirst  has  passed  away." 


Some  Mighty  Silly  Business,  *53 

"  Will  you  take  the  pasty?" 

"  No,  my  hunger  is  gone  too." 

I  bowed  again.     We  stood  in  silence  for  a  moment. 

"  I'll  walk  a  little,"  said  Barbara. 

"At  your  pleasure,"  said  I.  "But  pray  don't  go 
far,  there  may  be  danger." 

She  turned  away  and  retraced  her  steps  to  the 
beach.  The  instant  she  was  gone,  I  sprang  up,  seized 
the  jug,  and  ran  at  the  best  of  my  speed  to  the  cottage. 
Jonah  Wall  lay  still  across  the  entrance,  no  living 
creature  was  in  sight.  I  darted  in  and  looked  round 
for  water;  a  pitcher  stood  on  the  table,  and  I  filled  my 
jug  hastily.  Then  with  a  smile  of  sour  triumph  I 
hurried  back  by  the  way  I  had  come.  She  should 
have  no  cause  to  complain  of  me.  I  had  been  wronged, 
and  was  minded  to  hug  my  grievance,  and  keep  the 
merit  of  the  difference  all  on  my  side.  That  motive 
too  commonly  underlies  a  seeming  patience  of  wrong. 
I  would  not  for  the  world  enrich  her  with  a  just  quar- 
rel, therefore  I  brought  her  water,  aye,  although  she 
feigned  not  to  desire  it.  There  it  was  for  her,  let  her 
take  it  if  she  would  ;  or  leave  it  if  she  would,  and  I 
set  the  jug  down  by  the  pasty.  She  should  not  say 
that  I  had  refused  to  fetch  her  what  she  asked,  al- 
though she  had,  for  her  own  good  reasons,  flung  my 
guinea  into  the  sea.  She  would  come  soon,  then 
would  be  my  hour.  Yet  I  would  spare  her :  a  gentle- 
man should  show  no  exultation  ;  silence  would  serve 
to  point  the  moral. 

But  where  was  she?  To  say  truth,  I  was  impatient 
for  the  play  to  begin,  and  anticipation  grew  flat  with 
waiting.  I  looked  down  to  the  shore  but  could  not 
see  her.  I  rose  and  walked  forward  till  the  beach  lay 
open  before  me.  Where  was  Barbara? 

A  sudden  fear  ran  through  me.  Had  any  madness 
seized  the  girl,  some  uncontrolled  whim  made  her  fly 
from  me?  She  could  not  be  so  foolish.  But  where 


2S4  Simon  Dale* 

was  she?  On  the  moment  of  the  question  aery  of 
surprise  rang  from  my  lips.  There  ahead  of  me,  not 
on  the  shore,  but  on  the  sea  was  Barbara.  The  boat 
was  twelve  or  fifteen  yards  from  the  beach,  Barbara's 
face  was  towards  me,  and  she  was  rowing  out  to  sea ! 
Forgetting  pasty  and  jug,  I  bounded  down.  What 
new  folly  was  this  ?  To  show  herself  in  the  boat  was 
to  court  capture.  And  why  did  she  row  out  to  sea? 
In  an  instant  I  was  on  the  margin  of  the  water.  I 
called  out  to  her,  she  took  no  heed ;  the  boat  was 
heavy,  but  putting  her  strength  into  the  strokes  she 
drove  it  along.  Again  I  called,  and  called  unheeded. 
Was  this  my  triumph  ?  I  saw  a  smile  on  her  face. 
Not  she,  but  I,  afforded  the  sport  then.  I  would  not 
stand  there,  mocked  for  a  fool  by  her  eyes  and  her 
smile. 

"  Come  back,"  I  cried. 

The  boat  moved  on.  I  was  in  the  water  to  my 
knees.  "  Come  back,"  I  cried.  I  heard  a  laugh  from 
the  boat,  a  high  nervous  laugh  ;  but  the  boat  moved 
on.  With  an  oath  I  cast  my  sword  from  me,  throwing 
it  behind  me  on  the  beach,  and  plunged  into  the 
water.  Soon  I  was  up  to  the  neck,  and  I  took  to 
swimming.  Straight  out  to  sea  went  the  boat,  not 
fast,  but  relentlessly.  In  grim  anger  I  swam  with  all 
my  strength.  I  could  not  gain  on  her.  She  had 
ceased  now  even  to  look  where  my  head  bobbed 
among  the  waves;  her  face  was  lifted  towards  the  sky. 
By  heaven,  did  she  in  very  truth  mean  to  leave  me? 
I  called  once  more.  Now  she  answered. 

"  Go  back,"  she  said.     "  I'm  going  alone." 

"  By  heaven,  you  aren't,"  I  muttered  with  a  gasp, 
and  set  myself  to  a  faster  stroke.  Bad  to  deal  with 
are  women !  Must  she  fly  from  me  and  risk  all  be- 
cause I  had  not  smiled  and  grinned  and  run  for  what 
she  needed,  like  a  well-trained  monkey?  Well,  I 
would  catch  her  and  bring  her  back. 


'COMK    HACK.'    I    I   KIKI>." — PAliK    2.S4- 


Some  Mighty  Silly  Business.  255 

But  catch  her  I  could  not.  A  poor  oarsman  may 
beat  a  fair  swimmer,  and  she  had  the  start  of  me. 
Steadily  out  to  sea  she  rowed,  and  I  toiled  behind. 
If  her  mood  lasted — and  hurt  pride  lasts  long  in  dis- 
dainful ladies  who  are  more  wont  to  deal  strokes  than 
to  bear  them — my  choice  was  plain.  I  must  drown 
there  like  a  rat,  or  turn  back  a  beaten  cur.  Alas  for 
my  triumph  !  If  to  have  thought  on  it  were  sin,  I 
was  now  chastened.  But  Barbara  rowed  on.  In  very 
truth,  she  meant  to  leave  me,  punishing  herself  if  by 
that  she  might  sting  me.  What  man  would  have 
shown  that  folly — or  that  flower  of  pride  ? 

Yet  was  I  beaten?  I  do  not  love  to  be  beaten, 
above  all  when  the  game  has  seemed  in  my  hands.  I 
had  a  card  to  play,  and,  between  my  pants,  smiled 
grimly  as  it  came  into  my  mind.  I  glanced  over  my 
shoulder;  I  was  hard  on  half-a-mile  from  shore.  Wo- 
men are  compassionate ;  quick  on  pride's  heels  there 
comes  remorse.  I  looked  at  the  boat ;  the  interval 
that  parted  me  from  it  had  not  narrowed  by  an  inch, 
and  its  head  was  straight  for  the  coast  of  France.  I 
raised  my  voice,  crying, — 

"  Stop,  stop." 

No  answer  came.  The  boat  moved  on.  The  slim 
figure  bent  and  rose  again,  the  blades  moved  through 
the  water.  Well  then,  the  card  should  be  played — the 
trick  of  a  wily  gamester,  but  my  only  resource. 

"  Help,  help ! "  I  cried,  and  letting  my  legs  fall  and 
raising  my  hands  over  my  head,  I  inhaled  a  full  breath 
and  sank  like  a  stone,  far  out  of  sight  beneath  the 
water.  Here  I  abode  as  long  as  I  could  ;  then,  after 
swimming  some  yards  under  the  surface,  I  rose  and 
put  my  head  out  again,  gasping  hard  and  clearing  my 
matted  hair  from  before  my  eyes.  I  could  scarcely 
stifle  a  cry.  The  boat's  head  was  turned  now,  and 
Barbara  was  rowing  with  furious  speed  towards  where 
I  had  sunk,  her  head  turned  over  her  shoulder  and 


256  Simon  Dale. 

her  eyes  fixed  on  the  spot.  She  passed  by  where  I 
was  but  did  not  see  me.  She  reached  the  spot,  and 
dropped  her  oars. 

"  Help,  help  !  "  I  cried  a  second  time,  and  stayed 
long  enough  to  let  her  see  my  head  before  I  dived  be- 
low. But  my  stay  was  shorter  now.  Up  again,  I 
looked  for  her.  She  was  all  but  over  me  as  she  went 
by  ;  she  panted,  she  sobbed,  and  the  oars  but  just 
touched  water.  I  swam  five  strokes  and  caught  at 
the  gunwale  of  the  boat.  A  great  cry  broke  from 
her.  The  oars  fell  from  her  hands.  The  boat  was 
broad  and  steady  ;  I  flung  my  leg  over  and  climbed  in, 
panting  hard.  In  truth  I  was  out  of  breath.  Bar- 
bara cried,  "  You're  safe !  "  and  hid  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

We  were  mad  both  of  us,  beyond  a  doubt,  she 
sobbing  there  on  the  thwart,  I  panting  and  dripping 
in  the  bows.  Yet  for  a  touch  of  such  sweet  madness 
now,  when  all  young  nature  was  strung  to  a  delicious 
contest  and  the  blood  spun  through  the  veins,  full  of 
life  !  Our  boat  lay  motionless  on  the  sea,  and  the 
setting  sun  caught  the  undergrowth  of  red-brown  hair 
that  shot  through  Barbara's  dark  locks.  My  own 
state  was,  I  must  confess,  less  fair  to  look  on. 

I  controlled  my  voice  to  a  cold  steadiness,  as  I 
wrung  the  water  from  my  clothes. 

"  This  is  a  mighty  silly  business,  Mistress  Barbara," 
said  I. 

I  had  angled  for  a  new  outburst  of  fury,  my  catch 
was  not  what  I  looked  for.  Her  hands  were  stretched 
out  towards  me,  and  her  face,  pale  and  tearful,  pleaded 
with  me. 

"  Simon,  Simon,  you  were  drowning  !  Through  my 
— my  folly  !  Oh,  will  you  ever  forgive  me  ?  If — if 
you  had  come  to  hurt,  I  wouldn't  have  lived." 

"Yet  you  were  running  away  from  me !  " 

"I  didn't  dream  that  you'd  follow.     Indeed  I  didn't 


Some  Mighty  Silly  Business*  257 

think  that  you'd  risk  death."  Then  her  eyes  seemed 
to  fall  on  my  dripping  clothes.  In  an  instant  she 
snatched  up  the  cloak  that  lay  by  her  and  held  it 
towards  me,  crying,  "  Wrap  yourself  in  it." 

"  Nay,  keep  your  cloak,"  said  I,  "  I  shall  be  warm 
enough  with  rowing.  I  pray  you,  madame,  tell  me  the 
meaning  of  this  freak  of  yours." 

"  Nothing,  nothing.  I —  Oh,  forgive  me,  Simon. 
Ah,  how  I  shuddered  when  I  looked  round  on  the 
water  and  couldn't  see  you  !  I  vowed  to  God  that  if 
you  were  saved — "  She  stopped  abruptly. 

"  My  death  would  have  been  on  your  conscience  ?  " 
I  asked. 

"  Till  my  own  death,"  she  said. 

"Then  indeed,"  said  I,  "  I'm  very  glad  that  I  wasn't 
drowned." 

"  It's  enough  that  you  were  in  peril  of  it,"  she  mur- 
mured, woefully. 

"  I  pray  heaven,"  said  I,  cheerfully,  "  that  I  may 
never  be  in  greater.  Come,  Mistress  Barbara,  sport 
for  sport,  trick  for  trick,  feint  for  feint.  I  think  your 
intention  of  leaving  me  was  pretty  much  as  real  as 
this  peril  of  drowning  from  which  I  have  escaped." 

Her  hands,  which  had  still  implored  me,  fell  to  her 
side.  An  expression  of  wonder  spread  over  her  face. 

"  In  truth  I  meant  to  leave  you,"  she  said. 

"  And  why,  madame  ?  " 

"  Because  I  burdened  you." 

"  But  you  had  consented  to  accept  my  aid." 

"  While  you  seemed  to  give  it  willingly.  But  I 
had  angered  you  in  the  matter  of  that " 

"  Aye,  of  that  guinea.     Well,  it  was  my  last." 

"  Yes,  of  the  guinea.  Although  I  was  foolish,  yet  I 
could  not  endure  your — "  Again  she  hesitated. 

"  Pray  let  me  hear?"  said  I. 

"  I  would  not  stay  where  my  company  was  suffered 
rather  than  prized,"  said  she. 


258  Simon  Dale* 

"So  you  were  for  trying  fortune  alone?" 

"  Better  that  than  with  an  unwilling  defender,"  said 
she. 

"  Behold  your  injustice !  "  I  cried.  "  For,  rather 
than  lose  you,  I  have  faced  all,  even  drowning  !  "  And 
I  laughed. 

Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  my  face,  but  she  did  not 
speak.  I  believe  she  feared  to  ask  me  the  question 
that  was  in  her  dark  eyes.  But  at  last  she  murmured, — 

"  Why  do  you  speak  of  tricks?  Simon,  why  do  you 
laugh  ?  " 

"  Why,  since  by  a  trick  you  left  me — indeed  I  can- 
not believe  it  was  no  trick." 

"  I  swear  it  was  no  trick!  " 

"  I  warrant  it  was.  And  thus  by  a  trick  I  have  con- 
trived to  thwart  it." 

"By  a  trick?" 

"  Most  assuredly.  Am  I  a  man  to  drown  with  a 
half-a-mile's  swimming  in  smooth  water?"  Again  I 
laughed. 

She  leant  forward  and  spoke  in  an  agitated  voice, 
yet  imperiously, — 

"Tell  me  the  truth.  Were  you  indeed  in  danger 
and  distress?" 

"  Not  a  whit,"  said  I,  composedly.  "  But  you 
wouldn't  wait  for  me." 

Slowly  came  her  next  question, — 

"  It  was  a  trick  then?" 

"  And  crowned  with  great  success,"  said  I. 

"All  a  trick?" 

"  Throughout,"  I  answered. 

Her  face  grew  set  and  rigid,  and,  if  it  might  be,  yet 
paler  than  before.  I  waited  for  her  to  speak,  but  she 
said  nothing.  She  drew  away  the  cloak  that  she  had 
offered  me,  and,  wrapping  it  about  her  shoulders,  with- 
drew to  the  stern  of  the  boat.  I  took  her  place  and 
laid  hold  of  the  oars. 


Some  Mighty  Silly  Business.  259 

"  What's  your  pleasure  now,  madame?  "  I  asked. 

"  What  you  will,"  she  said,  briefly. 

I  looked  at  her,  she  met  my  gaze  with  a  steady  re- 
gard. I  had  expected  scorn,  but  found  grief  and  hurt. 
Accused  by  the  sight,  I  wrapped  myself  in  a  cold  flip- 
pancy. 

"  There  is  small  choice,"  said  I.  "  The  beach  is 
there,  and  that  we  have  found  not  pleasant.  Calais  is 
yonder,  where  certainly  we  must  not  go.  To  Dover 
then?  Evening  falls,  and  if  we  go  gently  it  will  be 
dark  before  we  reach  the  town." 

"  Where  you  will.  I  care  not,"  said  Barbara,  and 
she  folded  her  cloak  so  about  her  face  that  I  could  see 
little  more  of  her  than  her  eyes  and  her  brows.  Here 
at  length  was  my  triumph,  as  sweet  as  such  joys  are; 
malice  is  their  fount,  and  they  smack  of  its  bitterness. 
Had  I  followed  my  heart,  I  would  have  prayed  her 
pardon.  A  sore  spirit  had  impelled  her,  my  revenge 
lacked  justice.  Yet  I  would  not  abase  myself,  being 
now  in  my  turn  sore,  and  therefore  obstinate.  With 
slow  strokes  I  propelled  the  boat  towards  Dover  town. 

For  half  an  hour  I  rowed  ;  dusk  fell,  and  I  saw  the 
lights  of  Dover.  A  gentler  mood  came  on  me.  I 
rested  an  instant,  and,  leaning  forward,  said  to  Bar- 
bara,— 

"Yet  I  must  thank  you.  Had  I  been  in  peril,  you 
would  have  saved  me." 

No  answer  came. 

"  I  perceived  that  you  were  moved  by  my  fancied 
danger,"  I  persisted. 

Then  she  spoke  clearly,  calmly  and  coldly. 

"  I  wouldn't  have  a  dog  drown  under  my  eyes,"  said 
she.  "The  spectacle  is  painful." 

I  performed  such  a  bow  as  I  could,  sitting  there,  and 
took  up  my  oars  again.  I  had  made  my  advance ;  if 
such  were  the  welcome,  no  more  should  come  from 
me.  I  rowed  slowly  on,  then  lay  on  my  oars  awhile, 


260  Simon  Dale* 

waiting  for  darkness  to  fall.  The  night  came,  misty 
again  and  chill.  I  grew  cold  as  I  waited  (my  clothes 
were  but  half  dry)  and  would  gladly  have  thumped 
myself  with  my  hands.  But  I  should  have  seemed  to 
ask  pity  of  the  statue  that  sat  there,  enveloped  in  the 
cloak,  with  closed  eyes  and  pale  unmoved  face.  Sud- 
denly she  spoke, — 

"Are  you  cold,  sir?" 

"  Cold  ?  I  am  somewhat  over-heated  with  rowing, 
madame,"  I  answered.  "  But  I  pray  you,  wrap  your 
cloak  closer  round  you." 

"  I  am  very  well,  I  thank  you,  sir." 

Yet  cold  I  was,  and  bitterly.  Moreover  I  was  hun- 
gry and  somewhat  faint.  Was  Barbara  hungry?  I 
dared  not  ask  her  lest  she  should  find  a  fresh  mockery 
in  the  question. 

When  I  ventured  to  beach  the  boat  a  little  way  out 
of  Dover,  it  was  quite  dark,  being  hard  on  ten  o'clock. 
I  offered  Barbara  my  hand  to  alight,  but  she  passed  it 
by  unnoticed.  Leaving  the  boat  to  its  fate,  we 
walked  towards  the  town. 

"  Where  are  you  taking  me  ?  "  asked  Barbara. 

"  To  the  one  person  who  can  serve  us,"  I  answered. 
"  Veil  your  face,  and  it  would  be  well  that  we 
shouldn't  speak  loud." 

"  I  have  no  desire  to  speak  at  all,"  said  Barbara. 

I  would  not  tell  her  whither  she  went.  Had  we 
been  friends,  to  bring  her  there  would  have  taxed  my 
persuasion  to  the  full ;  as  our  affairs  stood,  I  knew  she 
would  lie  the  night  in  the  street  before  she  would  go. 
But  if  I  got  her  to  the  house,  I  could  keep  her.  But 
would  she  reach  the  house  ?  She  walked  very  wearily, 
faltering  in  her  step,  and  stumbling  over  every  loose 
stone.  I  put  out  my  arm  to  save  her  once,  but  she 
drew  away  from  it,  as  though  I  had  meant  to  strike 
her. 

At  last  we  "cam e>tcTlthe  narrow  alley  ;  making  a  sign 


Some  Mighty  Silly  Business*  261 

to  Barbara,  I  turned  down  it.  The  house  was  in  front 
of  me  ;  all  was  quiet,  we  had  escaped  detection.  Why, 
who  should  look  for  us  ?  We  were  at  Calais  with  King 
Louis,  at  Calais  where  we  were  to  be  married  ! 

Looking  at  the  house,  I  found  the  upper  windows 
dark  ;  there  had  been  the  quarters  of  Phineas  Tate, 
and  the  King  had  found  him  others.  But  below  there 
was  a  light. 

"  Will  it  please  you  to  wait  an  instant,  while  I  go 
forward  and  rouse  my  friend  ?"  I  asked.  "  I  shall  see 
then  whether  all  is  safe." 

"  I  will  wait  here,"  answered  Barbara,  and  she  leant 
against  the  wall  of  the  alley,  which  fronted  the  house. 
In  much  trepidation  I  went  on  and  knocked  with  my 
knuckles  on  the  door.  There  was  no  other  course, 
yet  I  did  not  know  how  either  of  them  would  take  my 
action,  the  lady  within  or  the  lady  without,  she  whom 
I  asked  for  succour  or  she  in  whose  cause  I  sought  it. 

My  entry  was  easy ;  a  man  servant  and  a  maid  were 
just  within,  and  the  house  seemed  astir.  My  request 
for  their  mistress  caused  no  surprise  ;  the  girl  opened 
the  door  of  the  room.  I  knew  the  room  and  gave  my 
name.  A  cry  of  pleasure  greeted  it,  and  a  moment 
later  Nell  herself  stood  before  me. 

"  From  the  Castle  or  Calais,  from  Deal  or  the 
devil?"  she  cried.  In  truth,  she  had  a  knack  of  tell- 
ing you  all  she  knew  in  a  sentence. 

"  Why,  from  half-way  between  Deal  and  the  devil," 
said  I.  "  For  I  have  left  Monmouth  on  one  side  and 
M.  de  Perrencourt  on  the  other,  and  am  come  safe 
through." 

"A  witty  Simon  !     But  why  in  Dover  again  ?" 

"  For  want  of  a  friend,  mistress.  Am  I  come  to 
one?  " 

"  With  all  my  heart,  Simon.     What  would  you  ?  " 

"  Means  to  go  to  London." 

"  Now  Heaven  is  kind  !     I  go  there  myself  in  a  few 


262  Simon  Dale* 

hours.  You  stare.  In  truth,  it's  worth  a  stare.  But 
the  King  commands.  How  did  you  get  rid  of  Louis?  " 

I  told  her  briefly;  she  seemed  barely  to  listen,  but 
looked  at  me  with  evident  curiosity,  and,  as  I  think, 
with  some  pleasure. 

"A  brave  thing!"  she  cried.  "Come,  I'll  carry 
you  to  London.  Nobody  shall  touch  you  while  you're 
hid  under  the  hem  of  my  petticoat.  It  will  be  like 
old  times,  Simon." 

"  I  have  no  money,"  said  I. 

"  But  I  have  plenty.  For  the  less  the  King  comes, 
the  more  he  sends.  He's  a  gentleman  in  his  apolo- 
gies. Her  sigh  breathed  more  contentment  than  re- 
pining. 

"  So  you'll  take  me  with  you  ?  " 

"To  the  world's  end,  Simon,  and  if  you  don't  ask 
that,  at  least  to  London." 

"  But  I'm  not  alone,"  said  I. 

She  looked  at  me  for  an  instant.  Then  she  began 
to  laugh. 

"Whom  have  you  with  you?  "  she  asked. 

"  The  lady,"  said  I. 

She  laughed  still,  but  it  seemed  to  me  not  very 
heartily. 

"  I'm  glad,"  she  said,  "  that  one  man  in  England 
thinks  me  a  good  Christian.  By  heaven,  you  do, 
Simon,  or  you'd  never  ask  me  to  aid  your  love." 

"There's  no  love  in  the  matter,"  I  cried.  "We're 
at  daggers  drawn." 

"  Then  certainly  there's  love  in  it,"  said  Mistress 
Nell,  nodding  her  pretty  head  in  a  mighty  sagacious 
manner.  "  Does  she  know  to  whom  you've  brought 
her?" 

"Not  yet,"  I  answered,  with  a  somewhat  uneasy 
smile. 

"  How  will  she  take  it  ?" 

"  She  has  no  other  help,"  said  I. 


Some  Mighty  Silly  Business.  263 

"  Oh,  Simon,  what  a  smooth  tongue  is  yours  ! " 
She  paused,  seeming  to  fall  into  a  reverie.  Then  she 
looked  at  me  wickedly. 

"You  and  your  lady  are  ready  to  face  the  perils  of 
the  road  ?  " 

"  Her  peril  is  greater  here,  and  mine  as  great." 

"  The  King's  pursuit,  Monmouth's  rage,  soldiers, 
officers,  footpads  ?  " 

"  A  fig  for  them  all !  " 

"  Another  peril  ?  " 

"  For  her  or  for  me  ?  " 

"  Why,  for  both,  good  Simon.  Don't  you  under- 
stand ?  See  then  !  "  She  came  near  to  me,  smiling 
most  saucily  and  pursing  her  lips  together  as  though 
she  meant  to  kiss  me. 

"  If  I  were  vowed  to  the  lady,  I  should  fear  the 
test,"  said  I,  "  but  I  am  free." 

"Where  is  she?"  asked  Nell,  letting  my  answer 
pass  with  a  pout. 

"  By  your  very  door." 

"  Let's  have  her  in,"  cried  Nell,  and  straightway  she 
ran  into  the  alley. 

I  followed,  and  came  up  with  her  just  as  she  reached 
Barbara.  Barbara  leant  no  more  against  the  wall,  but 
lay  huddled  at  the  foot  of  it.  Weariness  and  hunger 
had  overcome  her;  she  was  in  a  faint,  her  lips  colour- 
less and  her  eyes  closed.  Nell  dropped  beside  her, 
murmuring  low,  soft  consolations.  I  stood  by  in 
awkward  helplessness.  These  matters  were  beyond 
my  learning. 

"Lift  her,  and  carry  her  in,"  Nell  commanded,  and, 
stooping,  I  lifted  her  in  my  arms.  The  maid  and  the 
man  stared.  Nell  shut  the  door  sharply  on  them. 

"  What  have  you  done  to  her?"  she  cried  to  me,  in 
angry  accusation.  "  You've  let  her  go  without  food." 

"  We  had  none.  She  flung  my  last  money  into  the 
sea,"  I  pleaded. 


264  Simon  Dale* 

"  And  why  ?     Oh,  hold  your  peace  and  let  us  be  ! " 

To  question  and  refuse  an  answer  is  woman's  way; 
should  it  be  forbidden  to  Nell,  who  was  woman  from 
crown  to  sole  ?  I  shrugged  my  shoulders  and  drew 
off  to  the  far  end  of  the  room.  For  some  moments  I 
heard  nothing  and  remained  very  uneasy,  not  know- 
ing whether  it  were  allowed  me  to  look  or  not,  nor 
what  passed.  Then  I  heard  Barbara's  voice. 

"  I  thank  you,  I  thank  you  much.  But  where  am 
I,  and  who  are  you  ?  Forgive  me,  but  who  are 
you?" 

"  You're  in  Dover,  and  safe  enough,  madame,"  an- 
swered  Nell.  "  What  does  it  matter,  who  I  am  ? 
Will  you  drink  a  little  of  this  to  please  me?" 

"  No  ;  but  who  are  you  ?    I  seem  to  know  your  face." 

"  Like  enough.     Many  have  seen  it." 

"  But  tell  me  who  you  are." 

"  Since  you  will  know,  Simon  Dale  must  stand 
sponsor  for  me.  Here,  Simon  !  " 

I  rose  in  obedience  to  the  summons.  A  thing  that 
a  man  does  not  feel  of  his  own  accord,  a  girl's  eyes 
will  often  make  him  feel.  I  took  my  stand  by  Nell 
boldly  enough,  but  Barbara's  eyes  were  on  mine  and  I 
was  full  of  fear. 

"Tell  her  who  I  am,  Simon,"  said  Nell. 

I  looked  at  Nell.  As  I  live,  the  fear  that  was  in  my 
heart  was  in  her  eyes.  Yet  she  had  faced  the  world 
and  laughed  to  scorn  all  England's  frowns.  She  un- 
derstood my  thought  and  coloured  red.  Since  when 
had  Cydaria  learnt  to  blush?  Even  at  Hatchstead 
my  blush  had  been  the  target  for  her  mockery  !  "Tell 
her,"  she  repeated,  angrily. 

But  Barbara  knew.  Turning  to  her  I  had  seen  the 
knowledge  take  shape  in  her  eyes  and  grow  to  revul- 
sion and  dismay.  I  could  not  tell  what  she  would 
say  ;  but  now  my  fear  was  in  noway  for  myself.  She 
seemed  to  watch  Nell  for  awhile  in  a  strange  mingling 


Some  Mighty  Silly  Business*  265 

of  horror  and  attraction.  Then  she  rose,  and,  still 
without  a  word,  took  her  way  on  trembling  feet  to- 
wards the  door.  To  me  she  gave  no  glance  and 
seemed  to  pay  no  heed.  We  two  looked  for  an  instant, 
then  Nell  darted  forward. 

"You  mustn't  go!  "  she  cried.  "Where  would  you 
go?  You've  no  other  friend." 

Barbara  paused,  took  one  step  more,  paused  again. 

"  I  sha'n't  harm  you,"  said  Nell.  Then  she  laughed. 
"You  needn't  touch  me,  if  you  will  have  it  so.  But 
I  can  help  you.  And  I  can  help  Simon  ;  he's  not  safe 
in  Dover."  She  had  grown  grave,  but  she  ended  with 
another  laugh,  "You  needn't  touch  me.  My  maid  is 
a  good  girl — yes,  it's  true — and  she  shall  tend  you." 

"  For  pity's  sake,  Mistress  Barbara — "  I  began. 

"  Hush,"  said  Nell,  waving  me  back  with  a  motion 
of  her  hand.  Barbara  now  stood  still  in  the  middle  of 
the  room.  She  turned  her  eyes  on  me,  and  her  whis- 
per sounded  clear  through  all  the  room. 

"  Is  it — ?  "  she  asked. 

"  It  is  Mistress  Eleanor  Gwyn,"  said  I,  bowing  my 
head. 

Nell  laughed  a  short,  strange  laugh ;  I  saw  her 
breast  rise  and  fall,  and  a  bright  red  patch  marked 
either  cheek. 

"Yes,  I'm  Nelly,"  said  she,  and  laughed  again. 

Barbara's  eyes  now  met  hers. 

"  You  were  at  Hatchstead  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Nell,  and  now  she  smiled  defiantly  ; 
but  in  a  moment  she  sprang  forward,  for  Barbara  had 
reeled,  and  seemed  like  to  faint  again  and  fall.  A 
proud  motion  of  the  hand  forbade  Nell's  approach, 
but  weakness  baffled  pride,  and  now  perforce  Barbara 
caught  at  her  hand. 

"  I — I  can  go  in  a  moment,"  stammered  Barbara. 
"  But " 

Nell  held    one   hand.     Very   slowly,  very  timidly, 


266  Simon  Dale* 

with  fear  and  shame  plain  on  her  face,  she  drew 
nearer,  and  put  out  her  other  hand  to  Barbara.  Bar- 
bara did  not  resist  her,  but  let  her  come  nearer.  Nell's 
glance  warned  me  not  to  move,  and  I  stood  where  I 
was,  watching  them.  Now  the  clasp  of  the  hand  was 
changed  for  a  touch  on  the  shoulder,  now  the  com- 
forting arm  sank  to  the  waist  and  stole  round  it,  full 
as  timidly  as  ever  gallant's  round  a  denying  mistress. 
Still  I  watched,  and  I  met  Nell's  bright  eyes,  which 
looked  across  at  me,  wet  and  sparkling.  The  dark 
hair  almost  mingled  with  the  ruddy  brown,  as  Barbara's 
head  fell  on  Nell's  shoulder.  I  heard  a  little  sob,  and 
Barbara  moaned, — 

"  Oh,  I'm  tired,  and  very  hungry." 

"  Rest  here,  and  you  shall  have  food,  my  pretty," 
said  Nell  Gwyn.  "  Simon,  go  and  bid  them  give  you 
some." 

I  went,  glad  to  go.  And  as  I  went  I  heard,  "  There, 
pretty,  don't  cry." 

Well,  women  love  to  weep.  A  plague  on  them, 
though  they  need  not  make  us  also  fools. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 
A  Night  on  the  Road* 

IN  a  man  of  green  age  and  inexperience  a  hasty 
judgment  may  gain  pardon,  and  none  need  wonder 
that  his  hopes  carry  him  on  straightway  to  conclusions 
born  of  desire  rather  than  of  reason.  The  meeting  I 
feared  had  passed  off  so  softly  that  I  forgot  how 
strange  and  delicate  it  was,  and  what  were  the  barriers 
which  a  gust  of  sympathy  had  for  the  moment 
levelled.  It  did  not  enter  my  mind  that  they  must 
raise  their  heads  again,  and  that  friendship  or  even 
companionship  must  be  impossible  between  the  two 
whom  I,  desperately  seeking  some  refuge,  had  thrown 
together.  Yet  an  endeavour  was  made  and  that  on 
both  sides;  obligation  blunted  the  edge  of  Mistress 
Barbara's  scorn,  freedom's  respect  for  virtue's  chain 
schooled  Nell  to  an  unwonted  statdness  of  demeanour. 
The  fires  of  war  but  smouldered,  the  faintest  puff  of 
smoke  showing  only  here  and  there.  I  was  on  the 
alert  to  avoid  an  outbreak;  for  awhile  no  outbreak 
came  and  my  hopes  grew  to  confidence.  But  then — I 
can  write  the  thing  no  other  way — that  ancient  devil 
of  hers  made  re-entry  into  the  heart  of  Mistress  Gwyn. 
I  was  a  man,  and  a  man  who  had  loved  her ;  it  was 
then  twice  intolerable  that  I  should  disclaim  her  do- 
minion, that  I  should  be  free — nay,  that  I  should 
serve  another  with  a  sedulous  care  which  might  well 
seem  devotion ;  for  the  offence  touching  the  guinea 
was  forgotten,  my  mock  drowning  well-nigh  forgiven, 


268  Simon  Dale* 

and  although  Barbara  had  few  words  for  me,  they 
were  such  that  gratitude  and  friendship  shone  in  them 
through  the  veil  of  embarrassment.  Mistress  Nell's 
shrewd  eyes  were  on  us,  and  she  watched  while  she 
aided.  It  was  in  truth  her  interest,  as  she  conceived, 
to  carry  Barbara  safe  out  of  Dover;  but  there  was 
kindness  also  in  her  ample  succour;  although  (ever 
slave  to  the  sparkle  of  a  gem)  she  seized  with  eager 
gratitude  on  Louis'  jewelled  dagger  when  I  offered  it 
as  my  share  of  our  journey's  charges,  she  gave  full 
return.  Barbara  was  seated  in  her  coach,  a  good  horse 
was  provided  for  me,  her  servant  found  me  a  sober 
suit  of  clothes  and  a  sword.  Thus  our  strange  party 
stole  from  Dover  before  the  town  was  awake,  Nell 
obeying  the  King's  command  which  sent  her  back  to 
London,  and  delighting  that  she  could  punish  him  for 
it  by  going  in  our  company.  I  rode  behind  the  coach, 
bearing  myself  like  a  serving-man  until  we  reached 
open  country,  when  I  quickened  pace  and  stationed 
myself  by  the  window.  Up  to  this  time  matters  had 
gone  well ;  if  they  spoke,  it  was  of  service  given  and 
kindness  shown.  But  as  the  day  wore  on  and  we  came 
near  Canterbury  the  devil  began  to  busy  himself. 
Perhaps  I  showed  some  discouragement  at  the  grow- 
ing coldness  of  Barbara's  manner,  and  my  anxiety  to 
warm  her  to  greater  cordiality  acted  as  a  spur  on  our 
companion.  First  Nell  laughed  that  my  sallies  gained 
small  attention  and  my  compliments  no  return,  that 
Barbara  would  not  talk  of  our  adventures  of  the  day 
before,  but  harped  always  on  coming  speedily  where 
her  father  was  and  so  discharging  me  from  my  forced 
service.  A  merry  look  declared  that  if  Mistress  Quin- 
ton  would  not  play  the  game  another  would  :  a 
fusillade  of  glances  opened,  Barbara  seeing  and  feign- 
ing not  to  see,  I  embarrassed,  yet  chagrined  into  some 
return ;  there  followed  words,  half-whispered,  half- 
aloud,  not  sparing  in  reminiscence  of  other  days  and 


A  Night  on  the  Road.  269 

mischievously  pointed  with  tender  sentiment.  The 
challenge  to  my  manhood  was  too  tempting,  the  joy 
of  encounter  sweet.  Barbara  grew  utterly  silent,  sit- 
ting with  eyes  downcast  and  lips  set  in  a  disapproval 
that  needed  no  speech  for  its  expression.  Bolder  and 
bolder  came  Nell's  advances  ;  when  I  sought  to  drop 
behind  she  called  me  up ;  if  I  rode  ahead  she  swore 
she  would  bid  the  driver  gallop  his  horses  till  she  came 
to  me  again.  "  I  can't  be  without  you,  Simon.  Ah, 
'tis  so  long  since  we  were  together,"  she  whispered, 
and  turned  naughty  eyes  on  Barbara. 

Yet  we  might  have  come  through  without  declared 
conflict,  had  not  a  thing  befallen  us  at  Canterbury 
that  brought  Nell  into  fresh  temptation,  and  thereby 
broke  the  strained  cords  of  amity.  The  doings  of 
the  King  at  Dover  had  set  the  country  in  some  stir ; 
there  was  no  love  of  the  French  and  less  of  the  Pope  ; 
men  were  asking,  and  pretty  loudly,  why  Madame 
came  ;  she  had  been  seen  in  Canterbury,  the  Duke  of 
York  had  given  a  great  entertainment  there  for  her. 
They  did  not  know  what  I  knew,  but  they  were  un- 
easy concerning  the  King's  religion  and  their  own. 
Yet  Nell  must  needs  put  her  head  well  out  of  win- 
dow as  we  drove  in.  I  know  not  whether  the  sequel 
were  what  she  desired,  it  was  at  least  what  she  seemed 
not  to  fear,  a  fellow  caught  sight  of  her  and  raised  a 
cheer.  The  news  spread  quick  among  the  idle  folk 
in  the  street  and  the  busy,  hearing  it,  came  out  of 
their  houses.  A  few  looked  askance  at  our  protector, 
but  the  larger  part,  setting  their  Protestantism  above 
their  scruples,  greeted  her  gladly,  and  made  a  proces- 
sion for  her,  cheering  and  encouraging  her  with  cries 
which  had  more  friendliness  than  delicacy  in  them. 
Now,  indeed,  I  dropped  behind  and  rode  beside  the 
mounted  servant.  The  fellow  was  all  agrin,  triumph- 
ing in  his  mistress's  popularity.  Even  so  she  herself 
exulted  in  it,  and  threw  all  round  nods  and  smiles ; 


270  Simon  Dale. 

aye,  and,  alas,  repartees  conceived  much  in  the  same 
spirit  as  the  jests  that  called  them  forth.  I  could 
have  cried  on  the  earth  to  swallow  me,  not  for  my 
own  sake  (in  itself  the  scene  was  entertaining  enough, 
however  little  it  might  tend  to  edification),  but  on 
account  of  Mistress  Barbara.  Fairly  I  was  afraid  to 
ride  forward  and  see  her  face,  and  dreaded  to  re- 
member that  I  had  brought  her  to  this  situation. 
But  Nell  laughed  and  jested,  flinging  back  at  me  now 
and  again  a  look  that  mocked  my  glum  face  and  de- 
clared her  keen  pleasure  in  my  perplexity  and  her 
scorn  of  Barbara's  shame.  Where  now  the  tenderness 
and  sympathy  which  had  made  their  meeting  beauti- 
ful ?  The  truce  was  ended  and  war  raged  relentless. 

We  came  to  our  inn  ;  I  leapt  from  my  horse  and  fore- 
stalled the  bustling  host  in  opening  the  coach  door. 
The  loons  of  townsmen  and  their  gossiping  wives  lined 
the  approach  on  either  side  ;  Nell  sprang  out,  merry, 
radiant,  unashamed  ;  she  laughed  in  my  face  as  she 
ran  past  me  amid  the  plaudits  ;  slowly  Barbara  fol- 
lowed ;  with  a  low  bow  I  offered  my  arm.  Alas, 
there  rose  a  murmur  of  questions  concerning  her; 
who  was  the  lady  that  rode  with  Nell  Gwyn,  who  was 
he  that,  although  plainly  attired,  bore  himself  so 
proudly  ?  Was  he  some  great  lord,  travelling  un- 
known, and  was  the  lady — ?  Well,  the  conjectures 
may  be  guessed  and  Mistress  Quinton  heard  them. 
Her  pride  broke  fora  moment  and  I  feared  she  would 
weep ;  then  she  drew  herself  up  and  walked  slowly  by 
with  a  haughty  air  and  a  calm  face,  so  that  the  mur- 
mured questions  fell  to  silence.  Perhaps  I  also  had 
my  share  in  the  change,  for  I  walked  after  her,  wear- 
ing a  fierce  scowl,  threatening  with  my  eyes,  and  hav- 
ing my  hand  on  the  hilt  of  my  sword. 

The  host,  elate  with  the  honour  of  Nell's  coming, 
was  eager  to  offer  us  accommodation.  Barbara  ad- 
dressed not  a  word  either  to  Nell  or  to  me,  but  fol- 


A  Night  on  the  Road.  271 

lowed  a  maid  to  the  chamber  allotted  to  her.  Nell 
was  in  no  such  haste  to  hide  herself  from  view.  She 
cried  for  supper,  and  was  led  to  a  room  on  the  first 
floor  which  overlooked  the  street.  She  threw  the 
window  open  and  exchanged  more  greetings  and  ban- 
ter with  her  admirers  below.  I  flung  my  hat  on  the 
table  and  sat  moodily  in  a  chair.  Food  was  brought, 
and  Nell,  turning  at  last  from  her  entertainment,  flew 
to  partake  of  it  with  merry  eagerness. 

"  But  doesn't  Mistress  Quinton  sup  with  us?"  she 
said. 

Mistress  Quinton,  it  seemed,  had  no  appetite  for  a 
meal,  was  shut  close  in  her  own  chamber,  and  refused 
all  service.  Nell  laughed  and  bade  me  fall  to.  I 
obeyed,  being  hungry  in  spite  of  my  discomfort. 

I  was  resolute  not  to  quarrel  with  her.  She  had 
shown  me  great  friendliness  ;  nay,  and  I  had  a  fond- 
ness for  her,  such  as  I  defy  any  man  (man  I  say,  not 
woman)  to  have  escaped.  But  she  had  tried  me  sorely, 
and  while  we  ate,  she  plied  me  with  new  challenges 
and  fresh  incitements  to  anger.  I  held  my  temper 
well  in  bounds,  and,  when  I  was  satisfied,  rose  with  a 
bow,  saying  that  I  would  go  and  enquire  if  I  could  be 
of  any  aid  to  Mistress  Quinton. 

"  She  won't  show  herself  to  you,"  cried  Nell,  mock- 
ingly. 

"  She  will,  if  you're  not  with  me,"  I  retorted. 

"  Make  the  trial !     Behold,  I'm  firmly  seated  here  !  " 

A  maid  carried  my  message  while  I  paced  the  corri- 
dor ;  the  lady's  compliments  returned  to  me,  but, 
thanks  to  the  attention  of  the  host,  she  had  need  of 
nothing.  I  sent  again,  saying  that  I  desired  to  speak 
with  her  concerning  our  journey.  The  lady's  excuses 
returned  to  me  ;  she  had  a  headache  and  had  sought 
her  bed ;  she  must  pray  me  to  defer  my  business  till 
the  morrow,  and  wished  Mistress  Gwyn  and  me  good- 
night. The  maid  tripped  off  smiling. 


272  Simon  Dale* 

"  Plague  on  her  !  "  I  cried,  angrily  and  loudly.  A 
laugh  greeted  the  exclamation,  and  I  turned  to  see 
Nell  standing  in  the  doorway  of  the  room  where  we 
had  supped. 

"  I  knew,  I  knew ! "  she  cried,  revelling  in  her 
triumph,  her  eyes  dancing  in  delight.  "  Poor  Simon  ! 
Alas,  poor  Simon,  you  know  little  of  women  !  But 
come,  you're  a  brave  lad  and  I'll  comfort  you.  Besides, 
you  have  given  me  a  jewelled  dagger.  Shall  I  lend  it 
you  again,  to  plunge  in  your  heart,  poor  Simon?" 

"  I  don't  understand  you.  I  have  no  need  of  a 
dagger,"  I  answered  stiffly ;  yet,  feeling  a  fool  there  in 
the  passage,  I  followed  her  into  the  room. 

"Your heart  is  pierced  already?"  she  asked.  "Ah, 
but  your  heart  heals  well !  I'll  spend  no  pity  on  you." 

There  was  now  a  new  tone  in  her  voice.  Her  eyes 
still  sparkled  in  mischievous  exultation  that  she  had 
proved  right  and  I  come  away  sore  and  baffled.  But 
when  she  spoke  of  the  healing  of  my  heart,  there  was 
an  echo  of  sadness;  the  hinting  of  some  smothered 
sorrow  seemed  to  be  struggling  with  her  mirth.  She 
was  a  creature  all  compounded  of  sudden  changing 
moods;  I  did  not  know  when  they  were  true,  when 
feigned  in  sport,  or  to  further  some  device.  She 
came  near  now  and  bent  over  my  chair,  saying  gently, — 

"  Alas,  I'm  very  wicked  !  I  couldn't  help  the  folk 
cheering  me,  Simon.  Surely  it  was  no  fault  of  mine  ?  " 

"  You  had  no  need  to  look  out  of  the  window  of  the 
coach,"  said  I,  sternly. 

"  But  I  did  that  with  never  a  thought.  I  wanted 
the  air.  I " 

"  Nor  to  jest  and  banter.  It  was  mighty  unseemly, 
I  swear." 

"  In  truth  I  was  wrong  to  jest  with  them,"  said  Nell, 
remorsefully.  "  And  within,  Simon,  my  heart  was 
aching  with  shame,  even  while  I  jested.  Ah,  you 
don't  know  the  shame  I  feel !  " 


A  Night  on  the  Road.  273 

"  In  good  truth,"  I  returned,  "  I  believe  you  feel  no 
shame  at  all." 

"  You're  very  cruel  to  me,  Simon.  Yet  it's  no 
more  than  my  desert.  Ah,  if — "  she  sighed  heavily. 
"  If  only,  Simon — "  she  said,  and  her  hand  was  very 
near  my  hair  by  the  back  of  the  chair.  "  But  that's 
past  praying,"  she  ended,  sighing  again  most  woefully. 
"Yet  I  have  been  of  some  service  to  you  ! " 

"  I  thank  you  for  it  most  heartily,"  said  I,  still  stiff 
and  cold. 

"  And  I  was  very  wrong  to-day.  Simon,  it  was  on 
her  account." 

"  What  ?  "  I  cried.  "  Did  Mistress  Quinton  bid  you 
put  your  head  out  and  jest  with  the  fellows  on  the 
pavement?  " 

"  She  did  not  bid  me,  but  I  did  it  because  she  was 
there." 

I  looked  up  at  her;  it  was  a  rare  thing  with  her,  but 
she  would  not  meet  my  glance.  I  looked  down  again. 

"  It  was  always  the  same  between  her  and  me," 
murmured  Nell.  "Aye,  so  long  ago — even  at  Hatch- 
stead." 

"  We're  not  in  Hatchstead  now,"  said  I,  roughly. 

"  Nay,  nor  even  in  Chelsea.  For  even  in  Chelsea 
you  had  a  kindness  for  me." 

"  I  have  much  kindness  for  you  now." 

"  Well,  then  you  had  more." 

"  It  is  in  your  knowledge  why  now  I  have  no  more." 

"  Yes,  it's  in  my  knowledge!"  she  cried.  "Yet  I 
carried  Mistress  Quinton  from  Dover!  " 

I  made  no  answer  to  that.  She  sighed  "  Heigho," 
and  for  a  moment  there  was  silence.  But  messages 
pass  without  words  and  there  are  speechless  Mercuries 
who  carry  tidings  from  heart  to  heart.  Then  the  air 
is  full  of  whisperings  and  silence  is  but  foil  to  a  thou- 
sand sounds  which  the  soul  hears  though  the  dull  cor- 
poreal ear  be  deaf.  Did  she  still  amuse  herself  or  was 


274  Simon  Dale, 

there  more  ?  Sometimes  a  part,  assumed  in  play  or 
malice,  so  grows  on  the  actor  that  he  cannot,  even 
when  he  would,  throw  aside  his  trappings  and  wash 
from  his  face  the  paint  which  was  to  show  the  passion 
that  he  played.  The  thing  takes  hold  and  will  not  be 
thrown  aside  ;  it  seems  to  seek  revenge  for  the  light 
assumption  and  punishes  the  bravado  that  feigned 
without  feeling  by  a  feeling  which  is  not  feint.  She 
was  now,  for  the  moment  if  you  will,  but  yet  now,  in 
earnest.  Some  wave  of  recollection  or  of  fancy  had 
come  over  her  and  transformed  her  jest.  She  stole 
round  till  her  face  peeped  into  mine  in  piteous  bewitch- 
ing pleading,  asking  a  sign  of  fondness,  bringing  back 
the  past,  raising  the  dead  from  my  heart's  sepulchre. 
There  was  a  throbbing  in  my  brain  ;  yet  I  had  need  of 
a  cool  head.  With  a  spring  I  was  on  my  feet. 

"  I'll  go  and  ask  if  Mistress  Barbara  sleeps,"  I 
stammered.  "  I  fear  she  may  not  be  well  attended." 

"You'll  go  again?  Once  scorned,  you'll  go  again, 
Simon?  Well,  the  maid  will  smile;  they'll  make  a 
story  of  it  among  themselves  at  their  supper  in  the 
kitchen." 

The  laugh  of  a  parcel  of  knaves  and  wenches ! 
Surely  it  is  a  small  thing  !  But  men  will  face  death 
smiling  who  run  wry-faced  from  such  ridicule.  I  sank 
in  my  chair  again.  But  in  truth  did  I  desire  to  go  ? 
The  dead  rise,  or  at  least  there  is  a  voice  that  speaks 
from  the  tomb.  A  man  tarries  to  listen.  Well  if  he 
be  not  lost  in  listening  ! 

With  a  sigh  Nell  moved  across  the  room  and  flung 
the  window  open.  The  loiterers  were  gone,  all  was 
still,  only  the  stars  looked  in,  only  the  sweet  scent  of 
the  night  made  a  new  companion. 

"  It's  like  a  night  at  Hatchstead,"  she  whispered. 
"  Do  you  remember  how  we  walked  there  together? 
It  smelt  as  it  smells  to-night.  It's  so  long  ago  !  "  She 
came  quickly  towards  me  and  asked  "  Do  you  hate 


A  Night  on  the  Road,  275 

me  now  ? "  but  did  not  wait  for  the  answer.  She 
threw  herself  in  a  chair  near  me  and  fixed  her  eyes  on 
me.  It  was  strange  to  see  her  face,  grave  and  wrung 
with  agitation  ;  yet  she  was  better  thus,  the  new 
timidity  became  her  marvelously. 

There  was  a  great  clock  in  the  corner  of  the  old 
panelled  room;  it  ticked  solemnly,  seeming  to  keep 
time  with  the  beating  of  my  heart.  I  had  no  desire 
to  move,  but  sat  there  waiting  ;  yet  every  nerve  of 
my  body  was  astir.  Now  I  watched  her  every  move- 
ment, took  reckoning  of  every  feature,  seemed  to 
read  more  than  her  outward  visage  showed  and  to 
gain  knowledge  of  her  heart.  I  knew  that  she 
tempted  me,  and  why.  I  was  not  a  fool,  to  think 
that  she  loved  me,  but  she  was  set  to  conquer  me, 
and  with  her  there  was  no  price  that  seemed  high 
when  the  prize  was  victory  or  a  whim's  fulfilment. 

I  would  have  written  none  of  this,  but  that  it  is  so 
part  and  marrow  of  my  history,  that  without  it  the 
record  of  my  life  would  go  limping  on  one  leg. 

She  rose  and  came  near  me  again.  Now  she  laughed, 
yet  still  not  lightly,  but  as  though  she  hid  a  graver 
mood. 

"  Come,"  said  she,  "  you  needn't  fear  to  be  civil  to 
me.  Mistress  Barbara  is  not  here." 

The  taunt  was  well  conceived  ;  for  the  most  part 
there  is  no  incitement  that  more  whips  a  man  to  any 
madness  than  to  lay  self-control  to  the  score  of  cow- 
ardice, and  tell  him  that  his  scruples  are  not  his  own, 
but  worn  by  command  of  another  and  on  pain  of  her 
displeasure.  But  sometimes  woman's  cunning  goes 
astray,  and  a  name,  used  in  mockery,  speaks  for  itself 
with  strong  attraction,  as  though  it  held  the  charm  of 
her  it  stands  for.  The  name,  falling  from  Nell's  pout- 
ing lips,  had  power  to  raise  in  me  a  picture,  and  the 
picture  spread,  like  a  very  painting  done  on  canvas,  a 
screen  between  me  and  the  alluring  eyes  that  sought 


276  Simon  Dale. 

mine  in  provoking  witchery.  She  did  not  know  her 
word's  work,  and  laughed  again  to  see  me  grow  yet 
more  grave  at  Barbara's  name. 

"  The  stern  mistress  is  away,"  she  whispered.  "  May 
we  not  sport?  The  door  is  shut!  Why,  Simon, 
you're  dull.  In  truth  you're  as  dull  as  the  King  when 
his  purse  is  empty." 

I  raised  my  eyes  to  hers,  she  read  the  thought. 
She  tossed  her  head,  flinging  the  brown  curls  back  ; 
her  eyes  twinkled  merrily,  and  she  said  in  a  soft 
whisper  half  smothered  in  a  rising  laugh, — 

"  But,  Simon,  the  King  also  is  away." 

I  owed  nothing  to  the  King  and  thought  nothing  of 
the  King.  It  was  not  there  I  stuck.  Nay,  and  I  did 
not  stick  on  any  score  of  conscience.  Yet  stick  I  did 
and  gazed  at  her  with  a  dumb  stare.  She  seemed  to 
fall  into  a  sudden  rage,  crying, — 

"  Go  to  her  then  if  you  will,  but  she  won't  have  you. 
Would  you  like  to  know  what  she  called  you  to-day 
in  the  coach  ?" 

"  I  would  hear  nothing  that  was  not  for  my  ears." 

"A  very  pretty  excuse,  but  in  truth  you  fear  to 
hear  it." 

Alas,  the  truth  was  even  as  she  said.  I  feared  to 
hear  it. 

"But  you  shall  hear  it.  'A  good  honest  fellow,' 
she  said,  '  but  somewhat  forward  for  his  station.' 
So  she  said  and  leant  back  with  half-closed  lids.  You 
know  the  trick  these  great  ladies  have?  By  heaven 
though,  I  think  she  wronged  you  !  For  I'll  swear  on 
my  Bible  that  you're  not  forward,  Simon.  Well,  I'm 
not  Mistress  Quinton." 

"  You  are  not,"  said  I,  sore  and  angry,  and  wishing  to 
wound  her  in  revenge  for  the  blow  she  had  dealt  me. 

"  Now  you're  gruff  with  me  for  what  she  said.  It's 
a  man's  way.  I  care  not.  Go  and  sigh  outside  her 
door,  she  won't  open  it  to  you." 


A  Night  on  the  Road.  277 

She  drew  near  to  me  again,  coaxing  and  seeking  to 
soften  me. 

"  I  took  your  part,"  she  whispered,  "  and  declared 
that  you  were  a  fine  gentleman.  Nay,  I  told  her  how 
once' I  had  come  near  to—  Well,  1  told  her  many 
things  that  it  should  please  you  to  hear.  But  she 
grew  mighty  short  with  me,  and  on  the  top  came  the 
folk  with  their  cheers.  Hence  my  lady's  in  a  rage." 

She  shrugged  her  shoulders  ;  I  sat  there  sullen  ;  the 
scornful  words  were  whirling  through  my  brain. 
"  Somewhat  forward  for  his  station  !  "  It  was  a  hard 
judgment  on  one  who  had  striven  to  serve  her.  In 
what  had  I  shown  presumption?  Had  she  not  pro- 
fessed to  forgive  all  offence?  She  kept  the  truth  for 
others,  and  it  came  out  when  my  back  was  turned. 

"  Poor  Simon  !  "  said  Nell,  softly.  "  Indeed  I  won- 
der any  lady  should  speak  so  of  you.  It's  an  evil  re- 
turn for  your  kindness  to  her." 

Silence  fell  on  us  for  awhile.  Nell  was  by  me  now, 
her  hand  rested  lightly  on  my  shoulder,  and,  looking 
up,  I  saw  her  eyes  on  my  face  in  mingled  pensiveness 
and  challenge. 

"  Indeed  you  are  not  forward,"  she  murmured  with 
a  little  laugh,  and  set  one  hand  over  her  eyes. 

I  sat  and  looked  at  her;  yet,  though  I  seemed  to 
look  at  her  only,  the  whole  of  the  room  with  its  fur- 
nishings is  stamped  clear  and  clean  on  my  memory. 
Nell  moved  a  little  away  and  stood  facing  me. 

"  It  grows  late,"  she  said,  softly,  "and  we  must  be 
early  on  the  road.  I'll  bid  you  good-night  and  go  to 
my  bed." 

She  came  to  me,  holding  out  her  hand  ;  I  did  not 
take  it,  but  she  laid  it  for  a  moment  on  mine.  Then 
she  drew  it  away  and  moved  towards  the  door.  I  rose 
and  followed  her. 

"  I'll  see  you  safe  on  your  way,"  said  I,  in  a  low 
voice.  She  met  my  gaze  for  a  moment,  but  made  no 


2  7  8  Simon  Dale* 

answer  in  words.  We  were  in  the  corridor  now,  and 
she  led  the  way.  Once  she  turned  her  head  and  again 
looked  at  me.  It  was  a  sullen  face  she  saw,  but  still  I 
followed. 

"Tread  lightly!"  she  whispered.  "There's  her 
door,  we  pass  it,  and  she  would  not  love  to  know  that 
you  escorted  me.  She  scorns  you  herself,  and  yet 
when  another "  The  sentence  went  unended. 

In  a  tumult  of  feeling  still  I  followed.  I  was  half 
mad  with  resentment  against  Barbara;  swearing  to 
myself  that  her  scorn  was  nothing  to  me,  I  shrank 
from  nothing  to  prove  to  my  own  mind  the  lie  that 
my  heart  would  not  receive. 

"The  door!"  whispered  Nell,  going  delicately  on 
her  toes  with  uplifted  fore-finger. 

I  cannot  tell  why,  but  at  the  word  I  came  to  a 
stand.  Nell,  looking  over  her  shoulder  and  seeing  me 
stand,  turned  to  front  me.  She  smiled  merrily,  then 
frowned,  then  smiled  again  with  raised  eyebrows.  I 
stood  there  as  though  pinned  to  the  spot.  For  now  I 
had  heard  a  sound  from  within.  It  came  very  softly. 
There  was  a  stir  as  of  some  one  moving,  then  a  line 
of  some  soft  sad  song,  falling  in  careless  half-conscious- 
ness from  saddened  lips.  The  sound  fell  clear  and 
plain  on  my  ears,  though  I  paid  no  heed  to  the  words 
and  have  them  not  in  my  memory  ;  I  think  that  in 
them  a  maid  spoke  to  her  lover  who  left  her,  but  I  am 
not  sure.  I  listened.  The  snatch  died  away  and  the 
movement  in  the  room  ceased.  All  was  still  again, 
and  Nell's  eyes  were  fixed  on  mine.  I  met  them 
squarely,  and  thus  for  awhile  we  stood.  Then  came 
the  unspoken  question,  cried  from  the  eyes  that  were 
on  mine  in  a  thousand  tones.  I  could  trace  the  play 
of  her  face  but  dimly  by  the  light  of  the  smoky  lan- 
tern, but  her  eyes  I  seemed  to  see  plain  and  clear.  I 
had  looked  for  scorn  there,  and,  it  might  be,  amuse- 
ment. I  seemed  to  see  (perhaps  the  imperfect  light 


A  Night  on  the  Road.  279 

played  tricks),  besides  lure  and  raillery,  reproach,  sor- 
row, and,  most  strange  of  all,  a  sort  of  envy.  Then 
came  a  smile  and  ever  so  lightly  her  finger  moved  in 
beckoning.  The  song  came  no  more  through  the 
closed  door,  my  ears  were  empty  of  it ;  but  not  my 
heart ;  there  it  sounded  still  in  its  soft  pleading 
cadence.  Poor  maid,  whose  lover  left  her !  Poor 
maid,  poor  maid!  I  looked  full  at  Nell  but  did  not 
move.  The  lids  drooped  over  her  eyes,  and  their 
lights  went  out.  She  turned  and  walked  slowly  and 
alone  along  the  corridor.  I  watched  her  going,  yes, 
wistfully  I  watched.  But  I  did  not  follow,  for  the 
snatch  of  song  rose  in  my  heart.  There  was  a  door 
at  the  end  of  the  passage,  she  opened  it  and  passed 
though.  For  a  moment  it  stood  open,  then  a  hand 
stole  back  and  slowly  drew  it  close.  It  was  shut. 
The  click  of  the  lock  rang  clear  and  sharp  through  the 
silent  house. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

The  Vicar's  Proposition, 

I  do  not  know  how  long  I  stood  outside  the  door 
there  in  the  passage.  After  awhile  I  began  to  move 
softly  to  and  fro,  more  than  once  reaching  the  room 
where  I  was  to  sleep,  but  returning  again  to  my  old 
post.  I  was  loth  to  forsake  it.  A  strange  desire  was 
on  me.  I  wished  that  the  door  would  open,  nay,  to 
open  it  myself,  and  by  my  presence  declare  what  was 
now  so  plain  to  me.  But  to  her  it  would  not  have 
been  plain,  for  now  I  was  alone  in  the  passage,  and 
there  was  nothing  to  show  the  thing  which  had  come 
to  me  there,  and  there  at  last  had  left  me.  Yet  it 
seemed  monstrous  that  she  should  not  know,  possible 
to  tell  her  to-night,  certain  that  my  shame-faced  tongue 
would  find  no  words  to-morrow.  It  was  a  thing  that 
must  be  said  while  the  glow  and  the  charm  of  it  were 
still  on  me,  or  it  would  find  no  saying. 

The  light  had  burnt  down  very  low  and  gave  forth 
a  dim  fitful  glare,  hardly  conquering  the  darkness. 
Now,  again,  I  was  standing  still,  lost  in  my  struggle. 
Presently,  with  glad  amazement,  as  though  there  had 
come  an  unlooked-for  answer  to  my  prayer,  I  heard  a 
light  step  within.  The  footfalls  seemed  to  hesitate  ; 
then  they  came  again,  the  bolt  of  the  door  shot  back, 
and  a  crack  of  faint  light  showed.  "Who's  there?" 
asked  Barbara's  voice,  trembling  with  alarm  or  some 
other  agitation  which  made  her  tones  quick  and  timid. 
I  made  no  answer.  The  door  opened  a  little  wider. 


The  Vicar's  Proposition.  281 

I  saw  her  face  as  she  looked  out,  half-fearful,  yet 
surely  also  half  expectant.  Much  as  I  had  desired 
her  coming,  I  would  willingly  have  escaped  now,  for  I 
did  not  know  what  to  say  to  her.  I  had  rehearsed  my 
speech  a  hundred  times;  the  moment  for  its  utterance 
found  me  dumb.  Yet  the  impulse  I  had  felt  was  still 
on  me,  though  it  failed  to  give  me  words. 

"  I  thought  it  was  you,"  she  whispered.  "  Why 
are  you  there?  Do  you  want  me  ?  " 

Lame  and  halting  came  my  answer. 

"  I  was  only  passing  by  on  my  way  to  bed,"  I  stam- 
mered. "  I'm  sorry  I  roused  you." 

"  I  wasn't  asleep,"  she  said.  Then  after  a  pause 
she  added,  "  I — I  thought  you  had  been  there  some 
time.  Good-night." 

She  bade  me  good-night,  but  yet  seemed  to  wait  for 
me  to  speak ;  since  I  was  still  silent  she  asked,  "  Is 
our  companion  gone  to  bed?" 

"  Some  little  while  back,"  said  I.  Then  raising  my 
eyes  to  her  face,  I  said,  "  I'm  sorry  that  you  don't 
sleep." 

"  Alas,  we  both  have  our  sorrows,"  she  returned, 
with  a  doleful  smile.  Again  there  was  a  pause. 

"  Good-night,"  said  Barbara. 

"  Good-night,"  said  I. 

She  drew  back,  the  door  closed,  I  was  alone  again 
in  the  passage. 

Now  if  any  man — nay,  if  every  man — who  reads  my 
history,  at  this  place  close  the  leaves  on  his  thumb  and 
call  Simon  Dale  a  fool,  I  will  not  complain  of  him  ; 
but  if  he  be  moved  to  fling  the  book  away  for  good 
and  all,  not  enduring  more  of  such  a  fool  as  Simon 
Dale,  why  I  will  humbly  ask  him  if  he  hath  never  re- 
hearsed brave  speeches  for  his  mistress'  ear  and  found 
himself  tongue-tied  in  her  presence?  And  if  he  hath, 
what  did  he  then  ?  I  wager  that,  while  calling  himself 
a  dolt  with  most  hearty  honesty,  yet  he  set  some  of 


282  Simon  Dale* 

the  blame  on  her  shoulders,  crying  that  he  would 
have  spoken  had  she  opened  the  way,  that  it  was  her 
reticence,  her  distance,  her  coldness  which  froze  his 
eloquence;  and  that  to  any  other  lady  in  the  whole 
world  he  could  have  poured  forth  words  so  full  of  fire 
that  they  must  have  inflamed  her  to  a  passion  like  to 
his  own  and  burnt  down  every  barrier  which  parted 
her  heart  from  his.  Therefore  at  that  moment  he 
searched  for  accusations  against  her  and  found  a  bitter- 
tasting  comfort  in  every  offence  that  she  had  given 
him,  and  made  treasure  of  any  scornful  speech,  rescu- 
ing himself  from  the  extreme  of  foolishness  by  such 
excuse  as  harshness  might  afford.  Now  Barbara 
Quinton  had  told  Mistress  Nell  that  I  was  forward  for 
my  station.  What  man  could,  what  man  would,  lay 
bare  his  heart  to  a  lady  who  held  him  to  be  forward 
for  his  station? 

These  meditations  took  me  to  my  chamber,  whither 
I  might  better  have  gone  an  hour  before,  and  lasted  me 
fully  two  hours  after  I  had  stretched  myself  upon  the 
bed.  Then  I  slept  heavily;  when  I  woke  it  was  high 
morning.  I  lay  there  a  little  while,  thinking  with  no 
pleasure  of  the  journey  before  me.  Then  having 
risen  and  dressed  hastily,  I  made  my  way  to  the  room 
where  Nell  and  I  had  talked  the  night  before.  I  did 
not  know  in  what  mood  I  should  find  her,  but  I  de- 
sired to  see  her  alone  and  beg  her  to  come  to  some 
truce  with  Mistress  Quinton,  lest  our  day's  travelling 
should  be  over  thorns.  She  was  not  in  the  room 
when  I  came  there.  Looking  out  of  window  I  per- 
ceived the  coach  at  the  door;  the  host  was  giving  an 
eye  to  the  horses  and  I  hailed  him.  He  ran  in  and  a 
moment  later  entered  the  room. 

"At  what  hour  are  we  to  set  out?"  I  asked. 

"  When  you  will,"  said  he. 

"  Have  you  no  orders  then  from  Mistress  Gwyn?  " 

"  She  left  none  with  me,  sir." 


The  Vicar's  Proposition.  283 

"  Left  none?  "  I  cried,  amazed. 

A  smile  came  on  his  lips  and  his  eyes  twinkled. 

"  Now  I  thought  it !  "  said  he,  with  a  chuckle. 
"  You  didn't  know  her  purpose  ?  She  has  hired  a 
post-chaise  and  set  out  two  hours  ago,  telling  me  that 
you  and  the  other  lady  would  travel  as  well  without 
her ;  and  that,  for  her  part,  she  was  weary  of  both  of 
you.  But  she  left  a  message  for  you.  See,  it  lies 
there  on  the  table." 

A  little  packet  was  on  the  table  ;  I  took  it  up.  The 
innkeeper's  eyes  were  fixed  on  me  in  obvious  curiosity 
and  amusement.  I  was  not  minded  to  afford  him 
more  entertainment  than  I  need  and  bade  him  begone 
before  I  opened  the  packet.  He  withdrew  reluc- 
tantly. Then  I  unfastened  Nell's  parcel.  It  con- 
tained ten  guineas  wrapped  in  white  paper,  and  on 
the  inside  of  the  paper  was  written  in  a  most  laborious 
awkward  scrawl  (I  fear  the  execution  of  it  gave  poor 
Nell  much  pains),  "  In  pay  for  your  dagger.  E.  G." 
It  was  all  of  her  hand  that  I  had  ever  seen ;  the  brief 
message  seemed  to  speak  a  sadness  in  her.  Perhaps 
I  deluded  myself ;  her  skill  with  the  pen  would 
not  serve  her  far.  She  had  gone  ;  that  was  the  sum 
of  it,  and  I  was  grieved  that  she  had  gone  in  this 
fashion. 

With  the  piece  of  paper  still  in  my  hands,  the 
guineas  also  still  standing  in  a  little  pile  on  the  table, 
I  turned  to  find  Barbara  Quinton  in  the  doorway  of 
the  room.  Her  air  was  timid,  as  though  she  were  not 
sure  of  welcome,  and  something  of  the  night's  embar- 
rassment still  hung  about  her.  She  looked  round  as 
though  in  search  for  somebody. 

"  I  am  alone  here,"  said  I,  answering  her  glance. 

"  But  she  ?     Mistress ?  " 

"  She's  gone,"  said  I.  "  I  haven't  seen  her.  The 
innkeeper  tells  me  that  she  has  been  gone  these  two 
hours.  But  she  has  left  us  the  coach  and "  I 


284  Simon  Dale* 

walked  to  the  window  and  looked  out.  "  Yes,  and 
my  horse  is  there,  and  her  servant  with  his  horse." 

"  But  why  is  she  gone  ?     Hasn't  she  left ?  " 

"  She  has  left  ten  guineas  also,"  said  I,  pointing  to 
the  pile  on  the  table. 

"  And  no  reason  for  her  going?  " 

"  Unless  this  be  one,"  1  answered,  holding  out  the 
piece  of  paper. 

"  I  won't  read  it,"  said  Barbara. 

"  It  says  only,  '  In  pay  for  your  dagger.' " 

"Then  it  gives  no  reason." 

"Why,  no,  it  gives  none,"  said  I. 

"  It's  very  strange,"  murmured  Barbara,  looking  not 
at  me  but  past  me. 

Now  to  me,  when  I  pondered  over  the  matter,  it 
did  not  seem  altogether  strange.  Yet  where  lay  the 
need  to  tell  Mistress  Barbara  why  it  seemed  not 
altogether  strange?  Indeed  I  could  not  have  told  it 
easily,  seeing  that,  look  at  it  how  you  will,  the  thing 
was  not  easy  to  set  forth  to  Mistress  Barbara.  Doubt- 
less it  was  but  a  stretch  of  fancy  to  see  any  meaning 
in  Nell's  mention  of  the  dagger,  save  the  plain  one 
that  lay  on  the  surface  ;  yet  had  she  been  given  to 
conceits,  she  might  have  used  the  dagger  as  a  figure 
for  some  wound  that  I  had  dealt  her. 

"  No  doubt  some  business  called  her,"  said  I,  rather 
lamely.  "She  has  shown  much  consideration  in  leav- 
ing her  coach  for  us." 

"And  the  money?     Shall  you  use  it?" 

"  What  choice  have  I  ?  " 

Barbara's  glance  was  on  the  pile  of  guineas.  I  put 
out  my  hand,  took  them  up,  and  stowed  them  in  my 
purse  :  as  I  did  this,  my  eye  wandered  to  the  window. 
Barbara  followed  my  look  and  my  thought  also.  I 
had  no  mind  that  this  new  provision  for  our  needs 
should  share  the  fate  of  my  last  guinea. 

"  You    needn't    have    said    that ! "    cried    Barbara, 


The  Vicar's  Proposition.  285 

flushing;  although,  as  may  be  seen,  I  had  said  noth- 
ing. 

"  I  will  repay  the  money  in  due  course,"  said  I,  pat- 
ting my  purse. 

We  made  a  meal  together  in  unbroken  silence.  No 
more  was  said  of  Mistress  Nell  ;  our  encounter  in  the 
corridor  last  night  seemed  utterly  forgotten.  Re- 
lieved of  a  presence  that  was  irksome  to  her  and 
would  have  rendered  her  apprehensive  of  fresh  shame 
at  every  place  we  passed  through,  Mistress  Barbara 
should  have  shown  an  easier  bearing  and  more  gai- 
ety ;  so  I  supposed  and  hoped.  The  fact  refuted  me ; 
silent,  cold  and  distant,  she  seemed  in  even  greater 
discomfort  than  when  we  had  a  companion.  Her 
mood  called  up  a  like  in  me,  and  I  began  to  ask  my- 
self whether  for  this  I  had  done  well  to  drive  poor  Nell 
away. 

Thus  in  gloom  we  made  ready  to  set  forth.  Myself 
prepared  to  mount  my  horse,  I  offered  to  hand  Bar- 
bara into  the  coach.  Then  she  looked  at  me  ;  I  noted 
it,  for  she  had  not  done  so  much  for  an  hour  past ;  a 
slight  colour  came  on  her  cheeks,  she  glanced  round 
the  interior  of  the  coach;  it  was  indeed  wide  and  spa- 
cious for  one  traveller. 

"You  ride  to-day  also?"  she  asked. 

The  sting  that  had  tormented  me  was  still  alive ;  I 
could  not  deny  myself  the  pleasure  of  a  retort  so  apt. 
I  bowed  low  and  deferentially,  saying  "  I  have  learnt 
my  station.  I  would  not  be  so  forward  as  to  sit  in  the 
coach  with  you."  The  flush  on  her  cheeks  deepened 
suddenly,  she  stretched  out  her  hand  a  little  way 
towards  me  and  her  lips  parted  as  though  she  were 
about  to  speak.  But  her  hand  fell  again  and  her  lips 
shut  on  unuttered  words. 

"  As  you  will,"  she  said,  coldly.  "  Pray  bid  them 
set  out." 

Of  our  journey  I  will  say  no  more.     There  is  noth- 


286  Simon  Dale* 

ing  in  it  that  I  take  pleasure  in  telling,  and  to  write 
its  history  would  be  to  accuse  either  Barbara  or  my- 
self. For  two  days  we  travelled  together,  she  in  her 
coach,  I  on  horseback.  Come  to  London  we  were  told 
that  my  lord  was  at  Hatchstead ;  having  dispatched 
our  borrowed  equipage  and  servants  to  their  mistress, 
and  with  them  the  amount  of  my  debt  and  a  most  grate- 
ful message,  we  proceeded  on  our  way,  Barbara  in  a 
chaise,  I  again  riding.  All  the  way  Barbara  shunned 
me  as  though  I  had  the  plague  and  I  on  my  side 
showed  no  desire  to  be  with  a  companion  so  averse 
from  my  society.  On  my  life  I  was  driven  half-mad 
and  had  that  night  at  Canterbury  come  again — well, 
Heaven  be  thanked  that  temptation  comes  sometimes 
at  moments  when  virtue  also  has  attractions,  or  which 
of  us  would  stand  ?  And  the  night  we  spent  on  the 
road  decorum  forbade  that  we  should  so  much  as 
speak,  much  less  sup,  together ;  and  the  night  we  lay 
in  London  I  spent  at  one  end  of  the  town  and  she  at 
the  other.  At  least  I  showed  no  forwardness  ;  to  that 
I  was  sworn  and  adhered  most  obstinately.  Thus  we 
came  to  Hatchstead,  better  strangers  than  ever  we 
had  left  Dover,  and,  although  safe  and  sound  from 
bodily  perils  and  those  wiles  of  princes  that  had  of 
late  so  threatened  our  tranquillity,  yet  both  of  us  as  ill 
in  temper  as  could  be  conceived.  Defend  me  from 
any  such  journey  again  !  But  there  is  no  likelihood 
of  such  a  trial  now,  alas !  Yes,  there  was  a  pleasure 
in  it ;  it  was  a  battle,  and,  by  my  faith,  it  was  close 
drawn  between  us. 

The  chaise  stopped  at  the  Manor  gates,  and  I  rode 
up  to  the  door  of  it,  cap  in  hand.  Here  was  to  be 
our  parting. 

"  I  thank  you  heartily,  sir,"  said  Barbara  in  a  low 
voice,  with  a  bow  of  her  head  and  a  quick  glance  that 
would  not  dwell  on  my  sullen  face. 

"  My  happiness  has  been  to  serve  you,  madame,"  I 


The  Vicar's  Proposition.  287 

returned.  "  I  grieve  only  that  my  escort  has  been  so 
irksome  to  you." 

"  No,"  said  Barbara,  and  she  said  no  more,  but  rolled 
up  the  avenue  in  her  chaise,  leaving  me  to  find  my 
way  alone  to  my  mother's  house. 

1  sat  a  few  moments  -on  my  horse  watching  her  go. 
Then  with  an  oath  I  turned  away.  The  sight  of  the 
gardener's  cottage  sent  my  thoughts  back  to  the  old 
days  when  Cydaria  came  and  caught  my  heart  in  her 
butterfly  net.  It  was  just  there,  in  the  meadow  by 
the  avenue,  that  I  had  kissed  her.  A  kiss  is  a  thing 
lightly  given  and  sometimes  lightly  taken.  It  was 
that  kiss  which  Barbara  had  seen  from  the  window, 
and  great  debate  had  arisen  on  it.  Lightly  given,  yet 
leading  on  to  much  that  I  did  not  see;  lightly  taken, 
yet  perhaps  mother  to  some  fancies  that  men  would 
wonder  to  find  in  Mistress  Gwyn  ! 

"  I'm  heartily  glad  to  be  here ! "  I  cried,  loosing  the 
Vicar's  hand  and  flinging  myself  into  the  high  arm- 
chair in  the  chimney  corner. 

My  mother  received  this  exclamation  as  a  tribute 
of  filial  affection,  the  Vicar  treated  it  as  an  evidence 
of  friendship,  my  sister  Mary  saw  in  it  a  thanksgiving 
for  deliverance  from  the  perils  and  temptations  of 
London  and  the  Court.  Let  them  take  it  how  they 
would  ;  in  truth  it  was  inspired  in  none  of  these  ways, 
but  was  purely  an  expression  of  relief,  first  at  having 
brought  Mistress  Barbara  safe  to  the  Manor,  in  the 
second  place  at  being  quit  of  her  society. 

"  I  am  very  curious  to  learn,  Simon,"  said  the  Vicar, 
drawing  his  chair  near  mine,  and  laying  his  hand  upon 
my  knee,  "  what  passed  at  Dover.  For  it  seems  to 
me  that  there,  if  at  any  place  in  the  world,  the 
prophecy  which  Betty  Nasroth  spoke  concerning 
you " 

"  You  shall  know  all  in  good  time,  sir,"  I  cried,  im- 
patiently. 


288  Simon  Dale* 

"  Should  find  its  fulfilment,"  ended  the  Vicar,  pla- 
cidly. 

"  Are  we  not  finished  with  that  folly  yet  ?  "  asked 
my  mother. 

"  Simon  must  tell  us  that,"  smiled  the  Vicar. 

"  In  good  time,  in  good  time,"  I  cried  again. 
"  But  tell  me  first,  when  did  my  lord  come  here  from 
London?" 

"  Why,  a  week  ago.  My  lady  was  sick  and  the  phy- 
sician prescribed  the  air  of  the  country  for  her.  But 
my  lord  stayed  four  days  only  and  then  was  gone 
again." 

I  started  and  sat  upright  in  my  seat. 

"  What,  isn't  he  here  now?"  I  asked,  eagerly. 

"  Why,  Simon,"  said  my  good  mother  with  a  laugh, 
"  we  looked  to  get  news  from  you,  and  now  we  have 
news  to  give  you  !  The  King  has  sent  for  my  lord  ; 
I  saw  his  message.  It  was  most  flattering  and  spoke 
of  some  urgent  and  great  business  on  which  the  King 
desired  my  lord's  immediate  presence  and  counsel. 
So  he  set  out  two  days  ago  to  join  the  King  with  a 
large  train  of  servants,  leaving  behind  my  lady,  who 
was  too  sick  to  travel." 

I  was  surprised  at  these  tidings  and  fell  into  deep 
consideration.  What  need  had  the  King  of  my  lord's 
counsel,  and  so  suddenly?  What  had  been  done  at 
Dover  would  not  be  opened  to  Lord  Quinton's  ear. 
Was  he  summoned  as  a  Lord  of  Council  or  as  his 
daughter's  father?  For  by  now  the  King  must  know 
certain  matters  respecting  my  lord's  daughter  and  a 
humble  gentleman  who  had  striven  to  serve  her  as  far 
as  his  station  enabled  him  and  without  undue  for- 
wardness. We  might  well  have  passed  my  lord's 
coach  on  the  road  and  not  remarked  it  among  the 
many  that  met  us  as  we  drew  near  to  London  in  the 
evening.  I  had  not  observed  his  liveries,  but  that 
went  for  nothing.  I  took  heed  of  little  on  that 


The  Vicar's  Proposition.  289 

journey  save  the  bearing  of  Mistress  Barbara.  Where 
lay  the  meaning  of  my  lord's  summons?  It  came 
into  my  mind  that  M.  de  Perrencourt  had  sent  mes- 
sengers from  Calais,  and  that  the  King  might  be  seek- 
ing to  fulfil  in  another  way  the  bargain  whose 
accomplishment  I  had  thwarted.  The  thought  was 
new  life  to  me.  If  my  work  were  not  finished —  I 
broke  off;  the  Vicar's  hand  was  on  my  knee  again. 

"  Touching  the  prophecy — "  he  began. 

"  Indeed,  sir,  in  good  time  you  shall  know  all.  It 
is  fulfilled." 

"  Fulfilled  !  "  he  cried,  rapturously.  "  Then,  Simon, 
fortune  smiles?" 

"  Nay,"  I  retorted,  "  she  frowns  most  damnably." 

To  swear  is  a  sin,  to  swear  before  ladies  is  bad 
manners,  to  swear  in  talking  to  a  clergyman  is  worst 
of  all.  Yet,  while  my  mother  and  my  sister  drew 
away  in  offence  (and  I  hereby  tender  them  an  apology 
never  yet  made)  the  Vicar  only  smiled. 

"  A  plague  on  such  prophecies,"  said  I,  sourly. 

"Yet  if  it  be  fulfilled!"  he  murmured.  For  he 
held  more  by  that  than  by  any  good  fortune  of  mine  ; 
me  he  loved,  but  his  magic  was  dearer  to  him.  "  You 
must  indeed  tell  me,"  he  urged. 

My  mother  approached  somewhat  timidly. 

"  You  are  come  to  stay  with  us,  Simon  ? "  she 
asked. 

"  For  the  term  of  my  life,  so  far  as  I  know,  madame," 
said  I. 

"  Thanks  to  God  !  "  she  murmured,  softly. 

There  is  the  sort  of  saying  that  a  mother  speaks  and 
a  son  hears  to  his  shame  and  wonder!  Her  heart  was 
all  in  me,  while  mine  was  far  away.  Despondency 
had  got  hold  of  me.  Fortune,  in  her  merriest  mood, 
seeming  bent  on  fooling  me  fairly,  had  opened  a  door 
and  shown  me  the  prospect  of  fine  doings  and  high 
ambitions  realised.  The  glimpse  had  been  but  brief, 


290  Simon  Dale* 

and  the  tricky  creature  shut  the  door  in  my  face  with 
a  laugh.  Betty  Nasroth's  prophecy  was  fulfilled,  but 
its  accomplishment  left  me  in  no  better  state  ;  nay,  I 
should  be  compelled  to  count  myself  lucky  if  I  came 
off  unhurt  and  were  not  pursued  by  the  anger  of  those 
great  folk  whose  wills  and  whims  I  had  crossed.  I 
must  lie  quiet  in  Hatchstead,  and  to  lie  quiet  in  Hatch- 
stead  was  hell  to  me — aye,  hell,  unless  by  some  mira- 
cle (whereof  there  was  but  one  way)  it  should  turn  to 
heaven.  That  was  not  for  me ;  I  was  denied  youth's 
sovereign  balm  for  ill-starred  hopes  and  ambitions 
gone  awry. 

The  Vicar  and  I  were  alone  now,  and  I  could  not 
but  humour  him  by  telling  what  had  passed.  He 
heard  with  rare  enjoyment ;  and  although  his  interest 
declined  from  its  zenith  so  soon  as  I  had  told  the  last 
of  the  prophecy,  he  listened  to  the  rest  with  twinkling 
eyes.  No  comment  did  he  make,  but  took  snuff  fre- 
quently. I,  my  tale  done,  fell  again  into  meditation. 
Yet  I  had  been  fired  by  the  rehearsal  of  my  own  story, 
and  my  thoughts  were  less  dark  in  hue.  The  news 
concerning  Lord  Quinton  stirred  me  afresh.  My  aid 
might  again  be  needed ;  my  melancholy  was  tinted 
with  pleasant  pride  as  I  declared  to  myself  that  it 
should  not  be  lacking,  for  all  that  I  had  been  used  as 
one  would  not  use  a  faithful  dog,  much  less  a  gentle- 
man, who,  doubtless  by  no  merit  of  his  own  but  yet 
most  certainly,  had  been  of  no  small  service.  To  con- 
fess the  truth,  I  was  so  persuaded  of  my  value  that  I 
looked  for  every  moment  to  bring  me  a  summons,  and 
practised  under  my  breath  the  terms,  respectful  yet 
resentful,  in  which  I  would  again  place  my  arm  and 
sword  at  Barbara's  disposal. 

"You  loved  this  creature  Nell?"  asked  the  Vicar, 
suddenly. 

"  Aye,"  said  I,  "  I  loved  her." 

"You  love  her  no  more?" 


The  Vicar's  Proposition.  291 

"  Why,  no,"  I  answered,  mustering  a  cool  smile. 
"  Folly  such  as  that  goes  by  with  youth." 

"Your  age  is  twenty-four?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  twenty-four." 

"  And  you  love  her  no  longer  ?  " 

"I  tell  you,  no  longer,  sir." 

The  Vicar  opened  his  box  and  took  a  large  pinch. 

"Then,"  said  he,  the  pinch  being  between  his  finger 
and  thumb  and  just  half  way  on  the  road  to  his  nose, 
"you  love  some  other  woman,  Simon." 

He  spoke  not  as  a  man  who  asks  a  question  nor 
even  as  one  who  hazards  an  opinion  ;  he  declared  a  fact 
and  needed  no  answer  to  confirm  him.  "  Yes,  you  love 
some  other  woman,  Simon,"  said  he,  and  there  left 
the  matter. 

"  I  don't,"  I  cried,  indignantly.  Had  I  told  myself 
a  hundred  times  that  I  was  not  in  love  to  be  told  by 
another  that  I  was?  True  I  might  have  been  in  love, 
had  not — 

"  Ah,  who  goes  there  ? "  exclaimed  the  Vicar, 
springing  nimbly  to  the  window  and  looking  out  with 
eagerness.  "  I  seem  to  know  the  gentleman.  Come, 
Simon,  look." 

I  obeyed  him.  A  gentleman,  attended  by  two  ser- 
vants, rode  rapidly  past  ;  twilight  had  begun  to  fall, 
but  the  light  served  well  enough  to  show  me  who  the 
stranger  was.  He  rode  hard  and  his  horse's  head  was 
towards  the  Manor  gates. 

"  I  think  it  is  my  Lord  Carford,"  said  the  Vicar. 
"  He  goes  to  the  Manor,  as  I  think." 

"  I  think  it  is  and  I  think  he  does,"  said  I  ;  and  for 
a  single  moment  I  stood  there  in  the  middle  of  the 
room,  hesitating,  wavering,  miserable. 

"  What  ails  you,  Simon  ?  Why  shouldn't  my  Lord 
Carford  go  to  the  Manor?  "  cried  the  Vicar. 

"  Let  him  go  to  the  devil  !  "  I  cried,  and  I  seized 
my  hat  from  the  table  where  it  lay. 


2  92  Simon  Dale* 

The  Vicar  turned  to  me  with  a  smile  on  his  lips. 

"Go,  lad,"  said  he,  "  and  let  me  not  hear  you  again 
deny  my  propositions.  They  are  founded  on  an  ex- 
tensive observation  of  humanity  and " 

Well,  I  know  not  to  this  day  on  what  besides.  For 
I  was  out  of  the  house  before  the  Vicar  completed 
his  statement  of  the  authority  that  underlay  his  pro- 
positions. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 
The  Strange  Conjuncture  of  Two  Gentlemen. 

I  HAVE  heard  it  said  that  King  Charles  laughed 
most  heartily  when  he  heard  how  a  certain  gentleman 
had  tricked  M.  de  Perrencourt  and  carried  off  from 
his  clutches  the  lady  who  should  have  gone  to  pre- 
pare for  the  Duchess  of  York's  visit  to  the  Court  of 
Versailles.  "  This  Uriah  will  not  be  set  in  the  fore- 
front of  the  battle,"  said  he,  "  and  therefore  David 
can't  have  his  way."  He  would  have  laughed,  I  think, 
even  although  my  action  had  thwarted  his  own 
schemes,  but  the  truth  is  that  he  had  so  wrought  on 
that  same  devotion  to  her  religion  which,  according  to 
Mistress  Nell,  inspired  Mile,  de  Que>ouaille,  that  by 
the  time  the  news  came  from  Calais  he  had  little 
doubt  of  success  for  himself  although  his  friend  M.  de 
Perrencourt  had  been  baffled.  He  had  made  his 
treaty,  he  had  got  his  money,  and  the  lady,  if  she 
would  not  stay,  yet  promised  to  return.  The  King 
then  was  well  content,  and  found  perhaps  some  sly 
satisfaction  in  the  defeat  of  the  great  Prince  whose 
majesty  and  dignity  made  any  reverse  which  befell 
him  an  amusement  to  less  potent  persons.  In  any 
case  the  King  laughed,  then  grew  grave  for  a  moment 
while  he  declared  that  his  best  efforts  should  not  be 
wanting  to  reclaim  Mistress  Quinton  to  a  sense  of  her 
duty,  and  then  laughed  again.  Yet  he  set  about  re- 
claiming her,  although  with  no  great  energy  or  fierce- 
ness ;  and  when  he  heard  that  Monmouth  had  other 


294  Simon  Dale. 

views  of  the  lady's  duty,  he  shrugged  his  shoulders, 
saying,  "  Nay,  if  there  be  two  Davids,  I'll  wager  a 
crown  on  Uriah." 

It  is  easy  to  follow  a  man  to  the  door  of  a  house, 
but  if  the  door  be  shut  after  him  and  the  pursuer  not 
invited  to  enter,  he  can  but  stay  outside.  So  it  fell 
out  with  me,  and  being  outside  I  did  not  know  what 
passed  within  nor  how  my  Lord  Carford  fared  with 
Mistress  Barbara.  I  flung  myself  in  deep  chagrin  on 
the  grass  of  the  Manor  park,  cursing  my  fate,  myself, 
and,  if  not  Barbara,  yet  that  perversity  which  was  in 
all  women,  and,  by  logic,  even  in  Mistress  Barbara. 
But  although  I  had  no  part  in  it  the  play  went  on  and 
how  it  proceeded  I  learnt  afterwards ;  let  me  now 
leave  the  stage  that  I  have  held  too  long  and  pass  out 
of  sight  till  my  cue  calls  me  again. 

This  evening  then,  my  lady,  who  was  very  sick,  be- 
ing in  her  bed  and  Mistress  Barbara,  although  not 
sick,  very  weary  of  her  solitude  and  longing  for  the 
time  when  she  could  betake  herself  to  the  same  refuge 
(for  there  is  a  pride  that  forbids  us  to  seek  bed  too 
early,  however  strongly  we  desire  it)  there  came  a 
great  knocking  at  the  door  of  the  house.  A  gentle- 
man on  horseback  and  accompanied  by  two  servants 
was  without  and  craved  immediate  audience  of  her 
ladyship.  Hearing  that  she  was  abed  he  asked  for 
Mistress  Barbara  and  obtained  entrance ;  yet  he 
would  not  give  his  name,  but  declared  that  he  came 
on  urgent  business  from  Lord  Quinton.  The  excuse 
served  and  Barbara  received  him.  With  surprise  she 
found  Carford  bowing  low  before  her.  I  had  told  her 
enough  concerning  him  to  prevent  her  welcome  being 
warm.  I  would  have  told  her  more,  had  she  afforded 
me  the  opportunity.  The  imperfect  knowledge  that 
she  had  caused  her  to  accuse  him  rather  of  a  timidity 
in  face  of  powerful  rivals  than  of  any  deliberate 
design  to  set  his  love  below  his  ambition  and  to  use 


The  Strange  Conjuncture  of  Two  Gentlemen.     295 

her  as  his  tool.  Had  she  known  all  I  knew,  she  would 
not  have  listened  to  him.  Even  now  she  made  some 
pretext  for  declining  conversation  that  night,  and 
would  have  withdrawn  at  once  ;  but  he  stayed  her  re- 
treat, earnestly  praying  her  for  her  father's  sake  and 
her  own  to  hear  his  message,  and  asserting  that  she 
was  in  more  danger  than  she  was  aware  of.  Thus  he 
persuaded  her  to  be  seated. 

"  What  is  your  message  from  my  father,  my  lord  ?  " 
she  asked  coldly,  yet  not  uncivilly. 

"  Madame,  I  have  none,"  he  answered,  with  a  blunt- 
ness  not  ill  calculated.  "  I  used  the  excuse  to  gain 
admission,  fearing  that  my  own  devotion  to  you  would 
not  suffice,  well  as  you  know  it.  But  although  I  have 
no  message,  I  think  that  you  will  have  one  soon.  Nay, 
you  must  listen."  For  she  had  risen. 

"  I  listen,  my  lord,  but  I  will  listen  standing." 

"You're  hard  to  me,  Mistress  Barbara,"  he  said. 
"  But  take  the  tidings  how  you  will ;  only  pay  heed  to 
them."  He  drew  nearer  to  her  and  continued.  "  To- 
morrow a  message  will  come  from  your  father.  You 
have  had  none  for  many  days?  " 

"  Alas,  no  !  "  said  she.  "  We  were  both  on  the 
road  and  could  send  no  letter  to  one  another." 

''  To-morrow  one  comes.  May  I  tell  you  what  it 
will  say  ?  " 

"  How  can  you  know  what  it  will  say,  my  lord  ?" 

"  I  will  stand  by  the  event,"  said  he,  sturdily.  "  The 
coming  of  the  letter  will  prove  me  right  or  wrong. 
It  will  bid  your  mother  and  you  accompany  the  mes- 
senger  " 

"  My  mother  cannot " 

"  Or,  if  your  mother  cannot,  you  alone,  with  some 
waiting-woman,  to  Dover." 

"  To  Dover  ?  "  cried  Barbara.  "  For  what  purpose  ?  " 
She  shrank  away  from  him,  as  though  alarmed  by  the 
very  name  of  the  place  whence  she  had  escaped. 


296  Simon  Dale* 

He  looked  full  in  her  face  and  answered  slowly  and 
significantly, — 

"  Madame  goes  back  to  France  and  you  are  to  go 
with  her." 

Barbara  caught  at  a  chair  near  her  and  sank  into  it. 
He  stood  over  her  now,  speaking  quickly  and  ur- 
gently. 

"You  must  listen,"  he  said,  "and  lose  no  time  in 
acting.  A  French  gentleman,  by  name  M.  de  Fon- 
telles,  will  be  here  to-morrow  ;  he  carries  your  father's 
letter  and  is  sent  to  bring  you  to  Dover." 

"  My  father  bids  me  come  ?  "  she  cried. 

"  His  letter  will  convey  the  request,"  answered  Car- 
ford. 

"  Then  I  will  go,"  said  she.  "  I  can't  come  to  harm 
with  him,  and  when  I  have  told  him  all,  he  .won't  al- 
low me  to  go  to  France."  For  as  yet  my  lord  did 
not  know  of  what  had  befallen  his  daughter,  nor  did 
my  lady,  whose  sickness  made  her  unfit  to  be  bur- 
dened with  such  troublesome  matters. 

"  Indeed  you  would  come  to  no  harm  with  your 
father,  if  you  found  your  father,"  said  Carford. 
"  Come,  I  will  tell  you.  Before  you  reach  Dover  my 
lord  will  have  gone  from  there.  As  soon  as  his  letter 
to  you  was  sent,  the  King  made  a  pretext  to  dispatch 
him  into  Cornwall  ;  he  wrote  again  to  tell  you  of  his 
journey  and  bid  you  not  come  to  Dover  till  he  sends 
for  you.  This  letter  he  entrusted  to  a  messenger  of 
my  Lord  Arlington's  who  was  taking  the  road  for  Lon- 
don. But  the  Secretary's  messengers  know  when  to 
hasten  and  when  to  loiter  on  the  way.  You  are  to 
have  set  out  before  the  letter  arrives." 

Barbara  looked  at  him  in  bewilderment  and  terror  ; 
he  was  to  all  seeming  composed  and  spoke  with  an 
air  of  honest  sincerity. 

"  To  speak  plainly,  it  is  a  trick,"  he  said,  "  to  induce 
you  to  return  to  Dover.  This  M.  de  Fontelles  has 


The  Strange  Conjuncture  of  Two  Gentlemen*    297 

orders  to  bring  you  at  all  hazards  and  is  armed  with 
the  King's  authority  in  case  my  lord's  bidding  should 
not  be  enough." 

She  sat  for  a  while  in  helpless  dismay.  Carford  had 
the  wisdom  not  to  interrupt  her  thoughts  ;  he  knew 
that  she  was  seeking  for  a  plan  of  escape  and  was 
willing  to  let  her  find  that  there  was  none. 

"When  do  you  say  that  M.  de  Fontelles  will  be 
here?"  she  asked  at  last. 

"  Late  to-night  or  early  to-morrow.  He  rested  a 
few  hours  in  London,  while  I  rode  through,  else  I 
shouldn't  have  been  here  before  him." 

"  And  why  are  you  come,  my  lord  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  To  serve  you,  madame,"  he  answered,  simply. 

She  drew  herself  up,  saying  haughtily, — 

"  You  were  not  so  ready  to  serve  me  at  Dover." 

Carford  was  not  disconcerted  by  an  attack  that  he 
must  have  foreseen  ;  he  had  the  parry  ready  for  the 
thrust. 

"  From  the  danger  that  I  knew  I  guarded  you,  the 
other  I  did  not  know."  Then  with  a  burst  of  well- 
feigned  indignation  he  cried,  "By  heaven,  but  for  me 
the  French  King  would  have  been  no  peril  to  you ;  he 
would  have  come  too  late." 

She  understood  him  and  flushed  painfully, — 

"When  the  enemy  is  mighty,"  he  pursued,  "we 
must  fight  by  guile,  not  force;  when  we  can't  ^oppose 
we  must  delay';  we  must  check,  where  we  can't  stop. 
You  know  my  meaning,  to  you  I  couldn't  put  it  more 
plainly.  But  now  I  have  spoken  plainly  to  the  Duke 
of  Monmouth,  praying  something  from  him  in  my 
own  game  as  well  as  yours.  He  is  a  noble  Prince, 
madame,  and  his  offence  should  be  pardoned  by  you 
who  caused  it.  Had  I  thwarted  him  openly,  he  would 
have  been  my  enemy  and  yours.  Now  he  is  your 
friend  and  mine." 

The  defence  was  clever  enough  to  bridle  her  indig- 


298  Simon  Dale. 

nation.     He  followed  up  his  advantage  swiftly,  leaving 
her  no  time  to  pry  for  a  weak  spot  in  his  pleading. 

"  By  heaven,"  he  cried,  "  let  us  lose  no  time  on  past 
troubles.  I  was  to  blame,  if  you  will,  in  execution, 
though  not,  I  swear,  in  intention.  But  here  and  now 
is  the  danger,  and  I  am  come  to  guard  you  from  it." 

"  Then  I  am  much  in  your  debt,  my  lord,"  said  she, 
still  doubtful,  yet  in  her  trouble  eager  to  believe  him 
honest. 

"  Nay,"  said  he,  "  all  that  I  have,  madame,  is  yours, 
and  you  can't  be  in  debt  to  your  slave." 

I  do  not  doubt  that  in  this  speech  his  passion 
seemed  real  enough  and  was  the  more  effective  from 
having  been  suppressed  till  now,  so  that  it  appeared 
to  break  forth  against  his  will.  Indeed,  although  he 
was  a  man  in  whom  ambition  held  place  of  love,  yet 
he  loved  her  and  would  have  made  her  his  for  passion's 
sake  as  well  as  for  the  power  that  he  hoped  to  wield 
through  her  means.  I  hesitate  how  to  judge  him  ; 
there  are  many  men  who  take  their  colour  from  the 
times,  as  some  insects  from  the  plants  they  feed  on  ; 
in  honest  times  they  would  be  honest,  in  debauched 
they  follow  the  evil  fashion,  having  no  force  to  stand 
by  themselves.  Perhaps  this  lord  was  one  of  this 
kidney. 

"  It's  an  old  story,  this  love  of  mine,"  said  he,  in 
gentler  tones.  "  Twice  you  have  heard  it,  and  a  lover 
who  speaks  twice  must  mourn  once  at  least ;  yet  the 
second  time  I  think  you  came  nearer  to  heeding  it. 
May  I  tell  it  once  again?  " 

"  Indeed  it  is  not  the  time — "  she  began,  in  an  agi- 
tated voice. 

"  Be  your  answer  what  it  may,  I  am  your  servant," 
he  protested.  "  My  hand  and  heart  are  yours,  al- 
though yours  be  another's  !  " 

"  There  is  none — I  am  free — "  she  murmured.  His 
eyes  were  on  her  and  she  nerved  herself  to  calm,  say- 


The  Strange  Conjuncture  of  Two  Gentlemen,    299 

ing,  "  There  is  nothing  of  what  you  suppose.  But  my 
disposition  towards  you,  my  lord,  has  not  changed." 

He  let  a  moment  go  by  before  he  answered  her;  he 
made  it  seem  as  though  emotion  forbade  earlier  speech. 
Then  he  said  gravely, — 

"  I  am  grieved  from  my  heart  to  hear  it,  and  I  pray 
heaven  that  an  early  day  may  bring  me  another  an- 
swer. God  forbid  that  I  should  press  your  inclination 
now.  You  may  accept  my  service  freely,  although 
you  do  not  accept  my  love.  Mistress  Barbara,  you'll 
come  with  me?  " 

"  Come  with  you  ?  "  she  cried. 

"  My  lady  will  come  also,  and  we  three  together  will 
seek  your  father  in  Cornwall.  On  my  faith,  madame, 
there  is  no  safety  but  in  flight." 

"  My  mother  lies  too  sick  for  travelling.  Didn't 
you  hear  it  from  my  father  ?  " 

"  I  haven't  seen  my  lord.  My  knowledge  of  his 
letter  came  through  the  Duke  of  Monmouth,  and  al- 
though he  spoke  there  of  my  lady's  sickness,  I  trusted 
that  she  had  recovered." 

"  My  mother  cannot  travel.     It  is  impossible." 

He  came  a  step  nearer  her. 

"  Fontelles  will  be  here  to-morrow,"  he  said.  "  If 

you  are  here  then !  Yet  if  there  be  any  other 

whose  aid  you  could  seek —  ?  "  Again  he  paused, 
regarding  her  intently. 

She  sat  in  sore  distress,  twisting  her  hands  in  her 
lap.  One  there  was  and  not  far  away.  Yet  to  send 
for  him  crossed  her  resolution  and  stung  her  pride 
most  sorely.  We  had  parted  in  anger,  she  and  I ,  I 
had  blamed  my  share  in  the  quarrel  bitterly  enough, 
it  is  likely  she  had  spared  herself  no  more ;  yet  the 
more  fault  is  felt  the  harder  comes  its  acknowledg= 
ment. 

"  Is  Mr.  Dale  in  Hatchstead  ?  "  asked  Carford,  boldly 
and  bluntly. 


3°°  Simon  Dale* 

"  I  don't  know  where  he  is.  He  brought  me  here, 
but  I  have  heard  nothing  from  him  since  we  parted." 

"Then  surely  he  is  gone  again?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Barbara. 

Carford  must  have  been  a  dull  man  indeed  not  to 
discern  how  the  matter  lay.  There  is  no  better  time 
to  press  a  lady  than  when  she  is  chagrined  with  a  rival 
and  all  her  pride  is  under  arms  to  fight  her  inclination. 

"Surely,  or  he  could  not  have  shown  you  such  in- 
difference— nay,  I  must  call  it  discourtesy." 

"  He  did  me  service." 

"  A  gentleman,  madame,  should  grow  more,  not 
less,  assiduous,  when  he  is  so  happy  as  to  have  put  a 
lady  under  obligation." 

He  had  said  enough,  and  restrained  himself  from  a 
further  attack. 

"  What  will  you  do?"  he  went  on. 

"Alas,  what  can  I  do?"  Then  she  cried,  "This 
M.  de  Fontelles  can't  carry  me  off  against  my  will." 

"  He  has  the  King's  commands,"  said  Carford. 
"  Who  will  resist  him  ?  " 

She  sprang  to  her  feet  and  turned  on  him  quickly. 

"Why,  you,"  she  said.  "Alone  with  you  I  cannot 
and  will  not  go.  But  you  are  my — you  are  ready  to 
serve  me.  You  will  resist  M.  de  Fontelles  for  my 
sake,  aye,  and  for  my  sake  the  King's  commands." 

Carford  stood  still,  amazed  at  the  sudden  change  in 
her  manner.  He  had  not  conceived  this  demand  and 
it  suited  him  very  ill.  The  stroke  was  too  bold  for 
his  temper ;  the  King  was  interested  in  this  affair  and 
it  might  go  hard  with  the  man  who  upset  his  plan  and 
openly  resisted  his  messenger.  Carford  had  calculated 
on  being  able  to  carry  her  off  and  thus  defeat  the 
scheme  under  show  of  ignorance.  The  thing  done 
and  done  unwittingly  might  gain  pardon ;  to  meet 
and  defy  the  enemy  face  to  face  was  to  stake  all  his 
fortune  on  a  desperate  chance.  He  was  dumb.  Bar- 


The  Strange  Conjuncture  of  Two  Gentlemen*    301 

bara's  lips  curved  into  a  smile  that  expressed  wonder 
and  dawning  contempt. 

'  You  hesitate,  sir?"  she  asked. 

'  The  danger  is  great,"  he  muttered. 

'  You  spoke  of  discourtesy  just  now,  my  lord " 

'  You  do  not  lay  it  to  my  charge  ?  " 

'  Nay,  to  refuse  to  face  danger  for  a  lady,  and  a  lady 
whom  a  man  loves — you  meant  that,  my  lord  ? — goes 
by  another  name.  I  forgive  discourtesy  sooner  than 
that  other  thing,  my  lord." 

His  face  grew  white  with  passion.  She  accused  him 
of  cowardice  and  plainly  hinted  to  him  that,  if  he 
failed  her,  she  would  turn  to  one  who  was  no  coward, 
let  him  be  as  discourteous  and  indifferent  as  his  sullen 
disposition  made  him.  I  am  sorry  I  was  not  there,  to 
see  Carford's  face.  Yet  he  was  in  the  net  of  her  chal- 
lenge now  and  a  bold  front  alone  would  serve. 

"  By  God,  madame,"  he  cried,  "you  shall  know  by 
to-morrow  how  deeply  you  wrong  me.  If  my  head 
must  answer  for  it,  you  shall  have  the  proof." 

"  I  thank  you,  my  lord,"  said  she,  with  a  little  bow, 
as  though  she  asked  no  more  than  her  due  in  demand- 
ing that  he  should  risk  his  head  for  her.  "  I  did  not 
doubt  your  answer." 

"  You  shall  have  no  cause,  madame,"  said  he  very 
boldly,  although  he  could  not  control  the  signs  of  his 
uneasiness. 

"  Again  I  thank  you,"  said  she.  "  It  grows  late, 
my  lord.  By  your  kindness  I  shall  sleep  peacefully 
and  without  fear.  Good-night."  She  moved  towards 
the  door,  but  turned  to  him  again,  saying,  "  I  pray 
your  pardon,  but  even  hospitality  must  give  way  to 
sickness.  I  cannot  entertain  you  suitably  while  my 
mother  lies  abed.  If  you  lodge  at  the  inn,  they  will 
treat  you  well  for  my  father's  sake,  and  a  message 
from  me  can  reach  you  easily." 

Carford   had   strung   himself   to  give  the  promise, 


3°2  Simon  Dale* 

whether  he  would  fulfil  it  or  not  lay  uncertain  in  the 
future.  Yet  for  so  much  as  he  had  done,  he  had  a 
mind  to  be  paid.  He  came  to  her,  and,  kneeling,  took 
her  hand  ;  she  suffered  him  to  kiss  it. 

"There  is  nothing  I  wouldn't  do  to  win  my  prize," 
he  said,  fixing  his  eyes  ardently  on  her  face. 

"  I  have  asked  nothing  but  what  you  seemed  to 
offer,"  she  answered,  coldly.  "  If  it  be  a  matter  of 
bargain,  my  lord 

"  No,  no,"  he  cried,  seeking  to  catch  again  at  her 
hand  as  she  drew  it  away  and  with  a  curtsey  passed 
out. 

Thus  she  left  him  without  so  much  as  a  backward 
glance  to  promise  further  favour.  So  may  a  lady,  if 
she  plays  her  game  well,  take  all  and  promise  nothing. 

Carford,  refused  even  a  lodging  in  the  house,  crossed 
in  the  plan  by  which  he  had  recko'ned  on  getting  Bar- 
bara into  his  power,  driven  to  an  enterprise  for  which 
he  had  small  liking,  and  left  in  utter  doubt  whether 
the  success  for  which  he  ran  so  great  a  risk  would 
profit  him,  may  well  have  sought  the  inn  to  which 
Barbara  commended  him  in  no  cheerful  moo'd.  I 
wager  he  swore  a  round  oath  or  two,  as  he  and  his 
servants  made  their  way  thither  through  the  dark  and 
knocked  up  the  host,  who,  keeping  country  hours,  was 
already  in  his  bed.  It  cost  them  some  minutes  to 
rouse  him,  and  Carford  beat  most  angrily  on  the  door. 
At  last  they  were  admitted.  And  I  turned  away. 

For  I  must  confess  it ;  I  had  dogged  their  steps, 
not  able  to  rest  till  I  saw  what  would  become  of  Car- 
ford.  Yet  we  must  give  love  his  due;  if  he  takes  a 
man  into  strange  places,  sometimes  he  shows  him 
things  worth  his  knowing.  If  I,  a  lovesick  fool,  had 
watched  a  rival  into  my  mistress'  house  and  watched 
him  out  of  it  with  devouring  jealousy,  aye,  if  I  had 
chosen  to  spend  my  time  beneath  the  Manor  windows 
rather  than  in  my  own  comfortable  chair,  why  I  had 


The  Strange  Conjuncture  of  Two  Gentlemen*    303 

done  only  what  many  who  are  now  wise  and  sober 
gentlemen  have  done  in  their  time.  And  if  once  in 
that  same  park  I  had  declared  my  heart  broken  for 
the  sake  of  another  lady,  there  are  revolutions  in 
hearts  as  in  states,  and,  after  the  rebels  have  had  their 
day,  the  King  comes  to  his  own  again.  Nay,  I  have 
known  some  who  were  very  loyal  to  King  Charles, 
and  yet  said  nothing  hard  of  Oliver  whose  yoke  they 
once  had  worn.  I  will  say  naught  against  my  usurper, 
although  the  Queen  may  have  come  to  her  own  again. 

Well,  Carford  should  not  have  her.  I,  Simon  Dale, 
might  be  the  greatest  fool  in  the  King's  dominions  and 
lie  sulking  while  another  stormed  the  citadel  on  which 
I  longed  to  plant  my  flag.  But  the  victor  should  not 
be  Carford.  Among  gentlemen  a  quarrel  is  easily 
come  by  ;  yokels  may  mouth  their  blowsy  sweetheart's 
name  and  fight  openly  for  her  favour  over  their  mugs 
of  ale;  we  quarrel  on  the  state  of  the  kingdom,  the 
fall  of  the  cards,  the  cut  of  our  coats,  what  you  will. 
Carford  and  I  would  find  a  cause  without  much  search- 
ing. I  was  so  hot  that  I  was  within  an  ace  of  sum- 
moning him  then  and  there  to  show  by  what  right  he 
rode  so  boldly  through  my  native  village  ;  that  offence 
would  serve  as  well  as  any  other.  Yet  prudence  pre- 
vailed. The  closed  doors  of  the  inn  hid  the  party 
from  my  sight,  and  I  went  on  my  way,  determined  to 
be  about  by  cock-crow,  lest  Carford  should  steal  a 
march. 

But  as  I  went,  I  passed  the  Vicar's  door.  He  stood 
on  the  threshold,  smoking  his  long  pipe  (the  good 
man  loved  Virginia  and  gave  his  love  free  rein  in  the 
evening)  and  gazing  at  the  sky.  I  tried  to  slink  by 
him,  fearing  to  be  questioned,  but  he  caught  sight  of 
my  figure  and  called  me  to  him  ;  but  he  made  no 
reference  to  the  manner  of  our  last  parting. 

"Whither  away,  Simon?  "  he  asked. 

"  To  bed,  sir,"  said  I. 


304  Simon  Dale. 

"  It  is  well,"  said  he.     "And  whence?" 

"  From  a  walk,  sir." 

His  eyes  met  mine  and  I  saw  them  twinkle.  He 
waved  the  stem  of  his  pipe  in  the  air,  and  said, — 

"  Love,  Simon,  is  a  divine  distemper  of  the  mind, 
wherein  it  paints  bliss  with  woe's  palate  and  sees 
heaven  from  hell." 

"  You  borrow  from  the  poets,  sir,"  said  I,  surlily. 

"  Nay,"  he  rejoined,  "  the  poets  from  me,  or  from 
any  man  who  has  or  has  had  a  heart  in  him.  What, 
Simon,  you  leave  me  ?  "  For  I  had  turned  away. 

"  It's  late,  sir,"  said  I,  "  for  the  making  of  rhapso- 
dies." 

"  You've  made  yours,"  he  smiled.  "  Hark,  what's 
that?" 

As  he  spoke  there  came  the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs. 
A  moment  later  the  figures  of  two  mounted  men 
emerged  from  the  darkness.  By  some  impulse,  I 
know  not  what,  I  ran  behind  the  Vicar  and  sheltered 
myself  in  the  porch  at  his  back.  Carford's  arrival  had 
set  my  mind  astir  again  and  new  events  found  ready 
welcome.  The  Vicar  stepped  out  a  pace  into  the  road 
with  his  hand  over  his  eyes,  and  peered  at  the  strangers. 

"What  do  you  call  this  place,  sir?"  came  in  a  loud 
voice  from  the  nearer  of  the  riders.  I  started  at  the 
voice ;  it  had  struck  on  my  ears  before,  and  no  Eng- 
lishman owned  it. 

1     "  It  is  the  village  of  Hatchstead,  at  your  service," 
answered  the  Vicar. 

"  Is  there  an  inn  in  it  ?  " 

"  Ride  for  half-a-mile  and  you'll  find  a  good  one." 

"  I  thank  you,  sir." 

I  could  hold  myself  in  no  longer,  but  pushed  the 
Vicar  aside  and  ran  out  into  the  road.  The  horse- 
men had  already  turned  their  faces  towards  the  inn, 
and  walked  along  slowly,  as  though  they  were  weary. 
"  Good-night,"  cried  the  Vicar — whether  to  them  or 


II.    YIKNT  '  "    -PAliK    V 


The  Strange  Conjuncture  of  Two  Gentlemen.    305 

to  me  or  to  all  creation  I  know  not.  The  door  closed 
on  him.  I  stood  for  an  instant,  watching  the  retreat- 
ing form  of  the  man  who  had  enquired  the  way.  A 
spirit  of  high  excitement  came  on  me;  it  might  be 
that  all  was  not  finished,  and  that  Betty  Nasroth's 
prophecy  should  not  bind  the  future  in  fetters.  For 
there  at  the  inn  was  Carford,  and  here,  if  I  did  not 
err,  was  the  man  whom  my  knowledge  of  French  had 
so  perplexed  in  the  inn  at  Canterbury. 

And  Carford  knew  Fontelles.  On  what  errand  did 
they  come?  Were  they  friends  to  one  another  or 
foes?  If  friends,  they  should  find  an  enemy  ;  if  foes, 
there  was  another  to  share  their  battle.  I  could  not 
tell  the  meaning  of  this  strange  conjuncture  whereby 
the  two  came  to  Hatchstead  ;  yet  my  guess  was  not 
far  out,  and  I  hailed  the  prospect  that  it  gave  with  a 
fierce  exultation.  Nay,  I  laughed  aloud,  but  first 
knew  that  I  laughed  when  suddenly  M.  de  Fontelles 
turned  in  his  saddle,  crying  in  French  to  his  servant, — 

"  What  was  that  ?  " 

"  Something  laughed,"  answered  the  fellow,  in  an 
alarmed  voice. 

"  Something?     You  mean  somebody." 

"  I  know  not,  it  sounded  strange." 

I  had  stepped  in  under  the  hedge  when  Fontelles 
turned,  but  his  puzzle  and  the  servant's  superstitious 
fear  wrought  on  my  excitement.  Nothing  would 
serve  me  but  to  play  a  jest  on  the  Frenchman.  I 
laughed  again  loudly. 

"  God  save  us  ! "  cried  the  servant,  and  I  make  no 
doubt  he  crossed  himself  most  piously. 

"  It's  some  madman  got  loose,"  said  M.  de  Fontelles, 
scornfully.  "  Come,  let's  get  on." 

It  was  a  boy's  trick — a  very  boy's  trick.  Save  that 
I  set  down  everything  I  would  not  tell  it.  I  put  my 
hands  to  my  mouth  and  bellowed, — 

"  //  vient  !  " 


3°6  Simon  Dale* 

An  oath  broke  from  Fontelles.  I  darted  into  the 
middle  of  the  road,  and  for  a  moment  stood  there, 
laughing  again.  He  had  wheeled  his  horse  round,  but 
did  not  advance  towards  me.  I  take  it  that  he  was 
amazed,  or,  it  may  be,  searching  a  bewildered  memory. 

"  //  vient  !  "  I  cried  again  in  my  folly,  and,  turning, 
ran  down  the  road  at  my  best  speed,  laughing  still. 
Fontelles  made  no  effort  to  follow  me,  yet  on  I  ran,  till 
I  came  to  my  mother's  house.  Stopping  there,  panting 
and  breathless,  I  cried  in  the  exuberance  of  triumph, — 

"  Now  she'll  have  need  of  me !  " 

Certainly  the  thing  the  Vicar  spoke  of  is  a  distem- 
per. Whether  divine  or  of  what  origin,  I  will  not 
have  judged  by  that  night's  prank  of  mine. 

"  They'll  do  very  well  together  at  the  inn,"  I  laughed, 
as  I  flung  myself  on  my  bed. 


CHAPTER  XXIL 
The  Device  of  Lord  Carford. 

IT  is  not  my  desire  to  assail,  nor  is  it  my  part  to 
defend,  the  reputation  of  the  great.  There  is  no  such 
purpose  in  anything  that  I  have  written  here.  History 
is  their  judge,  and  our  own  weakness  their  advocate. 
Some  said,  and  many  believed,  that  Madame  brought 
the  young  French  lady  in  her  train  to  Dover  with  the 
intention  that  the  thing  should  happen  which  hap- 
pened. I  had  rather  hold,  if  it  be  possible  to  hold, 
that  a  Princess  so  gracious  and  so  unfortunate  meant 
innocently,  and  was  cajoled  or  overborne  by  the  per- 
suasions of  her  kinsmen,  and  perhaps  by  some  specious 
pretext  of  State  policy.  In  like  manner  I  am  reluc- 
tant to  think  that  she  planned  harm  for  Mistress  Bar- 
bara, towards  whom  she  had  a  true  affection,  and  I 
will  read  in  an  honest  sense,  if  I  can,  the  letter  which 
M.  de  Fontelles  brought  with  him  to  Hatchstead.  In 
it  Madame  touched  with  a  light  discretion  on  what 
had  passed,  deplored  with  pretty  gravity  the  wayward- 
ness of  men  and  her  own  simplicity,  which  made  her 
a  prey  to  their  devices  and  rendered  her  less  useful  to 
her  friends  than  she  desired  to  be.  Yet  now  she  was 
warned,  her  eyes  were  open,  she  would  guard  her  own 
honour  and  that  of  any  who  would  trust  to  her.  Nay, 
he  himself,  M.  de  Perrencourt,  was  penitent  (even  as 
was  the  Duke  of  Monmouth !),  and  had  sworn  to 
trouble  her  and  her  friends  no  more.  Would  not  then 
her  sweet  Mistress  Barbara,  with  whom  (she  vowed) 
she  had  fallen  so  mightily  in  love,  come  back  to  her 


3°S  «  Simon  Dale* 

and  go  with  her  to  France,  and  be  with  her  until  the 
Duchess  of  York  came,  and,  in  good  truth,  as  much 
longer  as  Barbara  would  linger,  and  Barbara's  father 
in  his  kindness  suffer.  So  ran  the  letter,  and  it  seemed 
an  honest  letter.  But  I  do  not  know ;  and  if  it  were 
honest,  yet  who  dared  trust  to  it  ?  Grant  Madame 
the  best  of  will,  where  lay  her  power  to  resist  M.  de 
Perrencourt?  But  M.  de  Perrencourt  was  penitent. 
Aye,  his  penitence  was  for  having  let  her  go,  and 
would  last  until  she  should  be  in  his  power  again. 

Let  the  intent  of  the  letter  he  carried  be  what  it 
might,  M.  de  Fontelles,  a  gentleman  of  courage  and 
high  honour,  believed  his  errand  honest.  He  had  not 
been  at  Dover,  and  knew  nothing  of  what  had  passed 
there ;  if  he  were  an  instrument  in  wicked  schemes, 
he  did  not  know  the  mind  of  those  who  employed 
him.  He  came  openly  to  Hatchstead  on  an  honour- 
able mission,  as  he  conceived,  and  bearing  an  invita- 
tion which  should  give  great  gratification  to  the  lady 
to  whom  it  was  addressed.  Madame  did  Mistress 
Quinton  the  high  compliment  of  desiring  her  company, 
and  would  doubtless  recompense  her  well  for  the  ser- 
vice she  asked.  Fontelles  saw  no  more  and  asked  no 
more.  In  perfect  confidence  and  honesty  he  set  about 
his  task,  not  imagining  that  he  had  been  sent  on  an 
errand  with  which  any  man  could  reproach  him,  or 
with  a  purpose  that  gave  any  the  right  of  questioning 
his  actions.  Nor  did  my  cry  of  "  //  vient "  change 
this  mood  in  him.  When  he  collected  his  thoughts 
and  recalled  the  incident  in  which  those  words  had 
played  a  part  before,  he  saw  in  them  the  challenge  of 
some  one  who  had  perhaps  penetrated  a  State  secret, 
and  was  ill-affected  towards  the  King  and  the  King's 
policy  ;  but,  being  unaware  of  any  connexion  between 
Mistress  Barbara  and  M.  de  Perrencourt,  he  did  not 
associate  the  silly  cry  with  the  object  of  his  present 
mission.  So  also,  on  hearing  that  a  gentleman  was  at 


The  Device  of  Lord  Carford.  .  309 

the  inn  (Carford  had  not  given  his  name)  and  had 
visited  the  Manor,  he  was  in  no  way  disquieted,  but 
ready  enough  to  meet  any  number  of  gentlemen  with- 
out fearing  their  company  or  their  scrutiny. 

Gaily  and  courteously  he  presented  himself  to  Bar- 
bara. Her  mother  lay  still  in  bed,  and  she  received 
him  alone  in  the  room  looking  out  on  the  terrace. 
With  a  low  bow  and  words  of  deference  he  declared 
his  errand,  and  delivered  to  her  the  letter  he  bore 
from  Madame,  making  bold  to  add  his  own  hopes 
that  Mistress  Quinton  would  not  send  him  back  un- 
successful, but  let  him  win  the  praise  of  a  trustworthy 
messenger.  Then  he  twirled  his  moustaches,  smiled 
gallantly,  and  waited  with  all  composure  while  she 
read  the  letter.  Indeed  he  deserves  some  pity,  for 
women  are  not  wont  to  spend  much  time  on  reason- 
ing in  such  a  case.  When  a  man  comes  on  a  business 
which  they  suspect  to  be  evil,  they  make  no  ado 
about  holding  him  a  party  to  it,  and  that  without  in- 
quiring whether  he  knows  the  thing  to  which  he  is 
setting  his  hand. 

Barbara  read  her  letter  through  once  and  a  second 
time ;  then,  without  a  word  to  Fontelles,  aye,  not  so 
much  as  bidding  him  be  seated,  she  called  a  servant, 
and  sent  him  to  the  inn  to  summon  Carford  to  her. 
She  spoke  low  and  the  Frenchman  did  not  hear. 
When  they  were  again  alone  together,  Barbara  walked 
to  the  window,  and  stood  there  looking  out.  Fon- 
telles, growing  puzzled  and  ill  at  ease,  waited  some 
moments  before  he  ventured  to  address  her  ;  her  air 
was  not  such  as  to  encourage  him ;  her  cheek  was 
reddened,  and  her  eyes  were  indignant.  Yet  at  last 
he  plucked  up  his  courage. 

"  I  trust,  madame,"  said  he,  "  that  I  may  cany  the 
fairest  of  answers  back  with  me  ?  " 

"  What  answer  is  that,  sir?"  she  asked,  half-turning 
to  him  with  a  scornful  glance. 


Simon  Dale. 

"Yourself,  madame,  if  you  will  so  honour  me,"  he 
answered,  bowing.  "  Your  coming  would  be  the  an- 
swer best  pleasing  to  Madame,  and  the  best  fulfilment 
of  my  errand." 

She  looked  at  him  coolly  for  a  moment  or  two,  and 
then  said, — 

"  I  have  sent  for  a  gentleman  who  will  advise  me  on 
my  answer." 

M.  de  Fontelles  raised  his  brows,  and  replied  some- 
what stiffly, — 

"You  are  free,  madame,  to  consult  whom  you  will, 
although  I  had  hoped  that  the  matter  needed  but 
little  consideration." 

She  turned  full  on  him  in  a  fury. 

"I  thank  you  for  your  judgment  of  me,  sir,"  she 
cried.  "  Or  is  it  that  you  think  me  a  fool  to  be 
blinded  by  this  letter  ?  " 

"  Before  heaven — "  began  the  puzzled  gentleman. 

"  I  know,  sir,  in  what  esteem  a  woman's  honour  is 
held  in  your  country,  and  at  your  King's  Court." 

"  In  as  high,  madame,  as  in  your  country,  and  at 
your  Court." 

"  Yes,  that's  true.  God  help  me,  that's  true  !  But 
we  are  not  at  Court  now,  sir.  Hasn't  it  crossed  your 
mind  that  such  an  errand  as  yours  may  be  dangerous?  " 

"  I  had  not  thought  it,"  said  he,  with  a  smile  and  a 
shrug.  "  But,  pardon  me,  I  do  not  fear  the  danger." 

"Neither  danger  nor  disgrace?"  she  sneered. 

Fontelles  flushed. 

"  A  lady,  madame,  may  say  what  she  pleases,"  he 
remarked,  with  a  bow. 

"  Oh,  enough  of  pretences,"  she  cried.  "  Shall  we 
speak  openly?  " 

"  With  all  my  heart,  madame,"  said  he,  lost  be- 
tween anger  and  bewilderment. 

For  a  moment  it  seemed  as  though  she  would  speak, 
but  the  shame  of  open  speech  was  too  great  for  her. 


The  Device  of  Lord  Carf ord*  *  311 

In  his  ignorance  and  wonder  he  could  do  nothing  to 
aid  her. 

"  I  won't  speak  of  it,"  she  cried.  "  It's  a  man's  part 
to  tell  you  the  truth,  and  to  ask  account  from  you.  I 
won't  soil  my  lips  with  it." 

Fontelles  took  a  step  towards  her,  seeking  how  he 
could  assuage  a  fury  that  he  did  not  understand. 

"  As  God  lives "  he  began,  gravely.  Barbara 

would  not  give  him  opportunity. 

"I  pray  you,"  she  cried,  "  stand  aside  and  allow  me 
to  pass.  I  will  not  stay  longer  with  you.  Let  me 
pass  to  the  door,  sir.  I'll  send  a  gentleman  to  speak 
with  you." 

Fontelles,  deeply  offended,  utterly  at  a  loss,  flung 
the  door  open  for  her  and  stood  aside  to  let  her  pass. 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  "  it  must  be  that  you  mis- 
apprehend." 

"  Misapprehend  ?     Yes,  or  apprehend  too  clearly  !  " 

"  As  I  am  a  gentleman " 

"  I  do  not  grant  it,  sir,"  she  interrupted. 

He  was  silent  then ;  bowing  again,  he  drew  a  pace 
further  back.  She  stood  for  a  moment,  looking  scorn- 
fully at  him.  Then  with  a  curtsey  she  bade  him  fare- 
well and  passed  out,  leaving  him  in  as  sad  a  condition 
as  ever  woman's  way  left  man  since  the  world  began. 

Now  for  reasons  that  have  been  set  out  Carford  re- 
ceived his  summons  with  small  pleasure,  and  obeyed 
it  so  leisurely  that  M.  de  Fontelles  had  more  time 
than  enough  in  which  to  rack  his  brains  for  the  mean- 
ing of  Mistress  Barbara's  taunts.  Yet  he  came  no 
nearer  the  truth,  and  was  reduced  to  staring  idly  out 
of  window,  till  the  gentleman  who  was  to  make  the 
matter  plain  should  arrive.  Thus  he  saw  Carford 
coming  up  to  the  house  on  foot,  slowly  and  heavily, 
with  a  gloomy  face  and  a  nervous  air.  Fontelles 
uttered  an  exclamation  of  joy  ;  he  had  known  Carford, 
and  a  friend's  aid  would  put  him  right  with  this  hasty 


312  Simon  Dale, 

damsel  who  denied  him  even  the  chance  of  self-de- 
fence. He  was  aware  also  that,  in  spite  of  his  out- 
ward devotion  to  the  Duke  of  Monmouth,  Carford 
was  in  reality  of  the  French  party.  So  he  was  about 
to  run  out  and  welcome  him,  when  his  steps  were 
stayed  by  the  sight  of  Mistress  Barbara  herself,  who 
flew  to  meet  the  new-comer  with  every  sign  of  eager- 
ness. Carford  saluted  her,  and  the  pair  entered  into 
conversation  on  the  terrace,  Fontelles  watching  them 
from  the  window.  To  his  fresh  amazement  the  inter- 
view seemed  hardly  less  fierce  than  his  own  had  been. 
The  lady  appeared  to  press  some  course  on  her  adviser, 
which  the  adviser  was  loth  to  take ;  she  insisted,  grow- 
ing angry  in  manner ;  he,  having  fenced  for  awhile  and 
protested,  sullenly  gave  way  ;  he  bowed  acquiescence 
while  his  demeanour  asserted  disapproval,  she  made 
nothing  of  his  disapproval  and  received  his  acquies- 
cence with  a  scorn  little  disguised.  Carford  passed  on 
to  the  house  ;  Barbara  did  not  follow  him,  but,  flinging 
herself  on  a  marble  seat,  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands  and  remained  there  in  an  attitude  which  spoke 
of  deep  agitation  and  misery. 

"  By  my  faith,"  cried  honest  M.  de  Fontelles,  "  this 
matter  is  altogether  past  understanding!  " 

A  moment  later  Carford  entered  the  room  and 
greeted  him  with  great  civility.  M.  de  Fontelles  lost 
no  time  in  coming  to  the  question  ;  his  grievance 
was  strong  and  bitter,  and  he  poured  out  his  heart 
without  reserve.  Carford  listened,  saying  little,  but 
being  very  attentive  and  keeping  his  shrewd  eyes  on 
the  other's  face.  Indignation  carried  Fontelles  back 
and  forwards  along  the  length  of  the  room  in  restless 
paces ;  Carford  sat  in  a  chair,  quiet  and  wary,  drinking 
in  all  that  the  angry  gentleman  said.  My  Lord  Carford 
was  not  one  who  believed  hastily  in  the  honour  and 
honesty  of  his  fellow-men,  nor  was  he  prone  to  expect 
a  simple  heart  rather  than  a  long  head ;  but  soon  he 


The  Device  of  Lord  Carford.  313 

perceived  that  the  Frenchman  was  in  very  truth 
ignorant  of  what  lay  behind  his  mission  and  that  Bar- 
bara's usage  of  him  caused  genuine  and  not  assumed 
offence.  The  revelation  set  my  lord  a-thinking. 

"  And  she  sends  for  you  to  advise  her?"  cried  Fon- 
telles.  "  That,  my  friend,  is  good  ;  you  can  advise 
her  but  in  one  fashion." 

"  I  don't  know  that,"  said  Carford,  feeling  his  way. 

"  It  is  because  you  don't  know  all.  I  have  spoken 
gently  to  her,  seeking  to  win  her  by  persuasion.  But 
to  you  I  may  speak  plainly,  I  have  direct  orders 
from  the  King  to  bring  her  and  to  surfer  no  man  to 
stop  me.  Indeed,  my  dear  lord,  there  is  no  choice 
open  to  you.  You  wouldn't  resist  the  King's  com- 
mand?" 

Yet  Barbara  demanded  that  he  should  resist  even 
the  King's  command.  Carford  said  nothing,  and  the 
impetuous  Frenchman  ran  on, — 

"  Nay,  it  would  be  the  highest  offence  to  myself  to 
hinder  me.  Indeed,  my  lord,  all  my  regard  for  you 
could  not  make  me  suffer  it.  I  don't  know  what  this 
lady  has  against  me,  nor  who  has  set  this  nonsense  in 
her  head.  It  cannot  be  you  !  You  don't  doubt  my 
honour?  You  don't  taunt  me  when  I  call  myself  a 
gentleman?  " 

He  came  to  a  pause  before  Carford,  expecting  an 
answer  to  his  hot  questions.  He  saw  offence  in  the 
mere  fact  that  Carford  was  still  silent. 

"  Come,  my  lord,"  he  cried,  "  I  do  not  take  pleasure 
in  seeing  you  think  so  long.  Isn't  your  answer  easy  ?  " 
He  assumed  an  air  of  challenge. 

Carford  was,  I  have  no  doubt,  most  plagued  and 
perplexed.  He  could  have  dealt  better  with  a  knave 
than  with  this  fiery  gentleman.  Barbara  had  de- 
manded of  him  that  he  should  resist  even  the  King's 
command.  He  might  escape  that  perilous  obligation 
by  convincing  Fontelles  himself  that  he  was  a  tool 


3H  Simon  Dale* 

in  hands  less  honourable  than  his  own ;  then  the 
Frenchman  would  in  all  likelihood  abandon  his  enter- 
prise. But  with  him  would  go  Carford's  hold  on  Bar- 
bara and  his  best  prospect  of  winning  her ;  for  in  her 
trouble  lay  his  chance.  If  on  the  other  hand  he  quar- 
relled openly  with  Fontelles,  he  must  face  the  con- 
sequences he  feared  or  incur  Barbara's  unmeasured 
scorn.  He  could  not  solve  the  puzzle_and  determined 
to  seek  a  respite. 

"  I  do  not  doubt  your  honour,  sir,"  he  said.  Fon- 
telles bowed  gravely.  "  But  there  is  more  in  this 
matter  than  you  know.  I  must  beg  a  few  hours  for 
consideration  and  then  I  will  tell  you  all  openly." 

"  My  orders  will  not  endure  much  delay." 

"  You  can't  take  the  lady  by  force." 

"  I  count  on  the  aid  of  my  friends  and  the  King's  to 
persuade  her  to  accompany  me  willingly." 

I  do  not  know  whether  the  words  brought  the  idea 
suddenly  and  as  if  with  a  flash  into  Carford's  head. 
It  may  have  been  there  dim  and  vague  before,  but 
now  it  was  clear.  He  paused  on  his  way  to  the  door, 
and  turned  back  with  brightened  eyes.  He  gave  a 
careless  laugh,  saying, — 

"  My  dear  Fontelles,  you  have  more  than  me  to 
reckon  with  before  you  take  her  away." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  my  lord  ?  " 

"  Why,  men  in  love  are  hard  to  reason  with,  and 
with  fools  in  love  there  is  no  reasoning  at  all.  Come, 
I'm  your  friend,  although  there  is  for  the  moment  a 
difficulty  that  keeps  us  apart.  Do  you  chance  to  re- 
member our  meeting  at  Canterbury?" 

"  Why,  very  well." 

"  And  a  young  fellow  who  talked  French  to  you?  " 
Carford  laughed  again.  "  He  disturbed  you  mightily 
by  calling  out " 

"  '  //  vient !  '  "  cried  Fontelles,  all  on  the  alert. 

"Precisely.     Well,  he  may  disturb  you  again." 


The  Device  of  Lord  Carford.  3 1 5 

"  By  heaven,  then  he's  here  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes." 

"  I  met  him  last  night !  He  cried  those  \vords  to 
me  again.  The  insolent  rascal!  I'll  make  him  pay 
for  it." 

"  In  truth  you  have  a  reckoning  to  settle  with  him." 

"  But  how  does  he  come  into  this  matter?  " 

"  Insolent  still,  he  is  a  suitor  for  Mistress  Ouinton's 
hand." 

Fontelles  gave  a  scornful  shrug  of  his  shoulders  ; 
Carford,  smiling  and  more  at  ease,  watched  him.  The 
idea  promised  well ;  it  would  be  a  stroke  indeed  could 
the  quarrel  be  shifted  on  to  my  shoulders,  and  M.  de 
Fontelles  and  I  set  by  the  ears  ;  whatever  the  issue 
of  that  difference,  Carford  stood  to  win  by  it.  And  I, 
not  he,  would  be  the  man  to  resist  the  King's  com- 
mand. 

"  But  how  comes  he  here?"  cried  Fontelles. 

"  The  fellow  was  born  here.  He  is  an  old  neighbour 
of  Mistress  Quinton." 

"  Dangerous  then  ?  " 

It  was  Carford's  turn  to  shrug  his  shoulders,  as  he 
said, — 

"  Fools  are  always  dangerous.  Well,  I'll  leave  you. 
I  want  to  think.  Only  remember  ;  if  you  please  to 
be  on  your  guard  against  me,  why,  be  more  on  your 
guard  against  Simon  Dale." 

"He  dares  not  stop  me.  Nay,  why  should  he? 
What  I  propose  is  for  the  lady's  advantage." 

Carford  saw  the  quarrel  he  desired  fairly  in  the 
making.  M.  de  Fontelles  was  honest,  M.  de  Fon- 
telles was  hot-tempered,  M.  de  Fontelles  would  be 
told  that  he  was  a  rogue.  To  Carford  this  seemed 
enough. 

"  You  would  do  yourself  good  if  you  convinced  him 
of  that,"  he  answered.  "  For  though  she  would  not, 
I  think,  become  his  wife,  he  has  the  influence  of  long 


316  Simon  Dale* 

acquaintance,  and  might  use  it  against  you.  But  per- 
haps you're  too  angry  with  him?  " 

"  My  duty  comes  before  my  quarrel,"  said  Fon- 
telles.  "  I  will  seek  this  gentleman." 

"  As  you  will.  I  think  you're  wise.  They  will 
know  at  the  inn  where  to  find  him." 

"  I  will  see  him  at  once,"  cried  Fontelles.  "  I  have, 
it  seems,  two  matters  to  settle  with  this  gentleman." 

Carford,  concealing  his  exultation,  bade  M.  de  Fon- 
telles do  as  seemed  best  to  him.  Fontelles,  declaring 
again  that  the  success  of  his  mission  was  nearest  his 
heart,  but  in  truth  eager  to  rebuke  or  chasten  my 
mocking  disrespect,  rushed  from  the  room.  Carford 
followed  more  leisurely.  He  had  at  least  time  for 
consideration  now  ;  and  there  were  the  chances  of  this 
quarrel  all  on  his  side. 

"Will  you  come  with  me?"  asked  Fontelles. 

"  Nay,  it's  no  affair  of  mine.  But  if  you  need  me 
later — "  He  nodded.  If  it  came  to  a  meeting,  his 
services  were  ready. 

"  I  thank  you,  my  lord,"  said  the  Frenchman,  un- 
derstanding his  offer. 

They  were  now  at  the  door,  and  stepped  out  on  the 
terrace.  Barbara,  hearing  their  tread,  looked  up. 
She  detected  the  eagerness  in  M.  de  Fontelles'  man- 
ner. He  went  up  to  her  at  once. 

"  Madame,"  he  said,  "  I  am  forced  to  leave  you  for 
a  while,  but  I  shall  soon  return.  May  I  pray  you  to 
greet  me  more  kindly  when  I  return  ?  " 

"  In  frankness,  sir,  I  should  be  best  pleased  if  you 
did  not  return,"  she  said,  coldly  ;  then,  turning  to  Car- 
ford,  she  looked  inquiringly  at  him.  She  conceived 
that  he  had  done  her  bidding,  and  thought  that  the 
gentlemen  concealed  their  quarrel  from  her.  "You  go 
with  M.  de  Fontelles,  my  lord  ?"  she  asked. 

"  With  your  permission,  I  remain  here,"  he  an- 
swered. 


The  Device  of  Lord  Carford*  317 

She  was  vexed,  and  rose  to  her  feet  as  she  cried, — 

"  Then  where  is  M.  de  Fontelles  going?  " 

Fontelles  took  the  reply  for  himself. 

"  I  am  going  to  seek  a  gentleman  with  whom  I  have 
business,"  said  he. 

"  You  have  none  with  my  Lord  Carford  ?  " 

"  What  I  have  with  him  will  wait." 

"  He  desires  it  should  wait  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  quick 
tone. 

"  Yes,  madame." 

"  I'd  have  sworn  it,"  said  Barbara  Quinton. 

"But  with  Mr.  Simon  Dale " 

"  With  Simon  Dale?  W;hat  concern  have  you  with 
Simon  Dale?  " 

"He  has  mocked  me  twice,  and  I  believe  hinders 
me  now,"  returned  Fontelles,  his  hot  temper  rising 
again. 

Barbara  clasped  her  hands,  and  cried  triumphantly, 

"Go  to  him,  go  to  him.  Heaven  is  good  to  me! 
Go  to  Simon  Dale." 

The  amazed  eyes  of  Fontelles  and  the  sullen  en- 
raged glance  of  Carford  recalled  her  to  wariness.  Yet 
the  avowal  (Oh,  that  it  had  pleased  God  I  should  hear 
it!)  must  have  its  price  and  its  penalty.  A  burning 
flush  spread  over  her  face  and  even  to  the  border  of  the 
gown  on  her  neck.  But  she  was  proud  in  her  shame 
and  her  eyes  met  theirs  in  a  level  gaze. 

To  Fontelles  her  bearing  and  the  betrayal  of  her- 
self brought  fresh  and  strong  confirmation  of  Carford's 
warning.  But  he  was  a  gentleman  and  would  not 
look  at  her  when  her  blushes  implored  the  absence  of 
his  eyes. 

"  I  go  to  seek  Mr.  Dale,"  said  he  gravely,  and  with- 
out more  words  turned  on  his  heel. 

In  a  sudden  impulse,  perhaps  a  sudden  doubt  of 
her  judgment  of  him,  Barbara  darted  after  him. 

"  For  what  purpose  do  you  seek  him  ?" 


318  Simon  Dale* 

"  Madame,"  he  answered,  "  I  cannot  tell  you." 

She  looked  for  a  moment  keenly  in  his  face;  her 
breath  came  quick  and  fast,  the  hue  of  her  cheek 
flashed  from  red  to  white. 

"  Mr.  Dale,"  said  she,  drawing  herself  up,  "  will  not 
fear  to  meet  you." 

Again  Fontelles  bowed,  turned,  and  was  gone,  swiftly 
and  eagerly  striding  down  the  avenue,  bent  on  find- 
ing me. 

Barbara  was  left  alone  with  Carford.  His  heavy 
frown  and  surly  eyes  accused  her.  She  had  no  mind 
to  take  the  part  of  the  guilty. 

"Well,  my  lord,"  she  said,  "have  you  told  this 
M.  de  Fontelles  what  honest  folk  would  think  of  him 
and  his  errand?  " 

"  I  believe  him  to  be  honest,"  answered  Carford. 

"You  live  the  quieter  for  your  belief!"  she  cried, 
contemptuously. 

"  I  live  the  less  quiet  for  what  I  have  seen  just 
now,"  he  retorted. 

There  was  a  silence.  Barbara  stood  with  heaving 
breast,  he  opposite  to  her,  still  and  sullen.  She  looked 
long  at  him,  but  at  last  seemed  not  to  see  him  ;  then 
she  spoke  in  soft  tones,  not  as  though  to  him,  but 
rather  in  an  answer  to  her  own  heart,  whose  cry  could 
go  no  more  unheeded.  Her  eyes  grew  soft  and  veiled 
in  a  mist  of  tears  that  did  not  fall.  (So  I  see  it — she 
told  me  no  more  than  that  she  was  near  crying). 

"  I  couldn't  send  for  him,"  she  murmured.  "  I 
wouldn't  send  for  him.  But  now  he  will  come,  yes, 
he'll  come  now." 

Carford,  driven  half-mad  by  an  outburst  which  his 
own  device  had  caused,  moved  by  whatever  of  true 
love  he  had  for  her,  and  by  his  great  rage  and  jealousy 
against  me,  fairly  ran  at  her  and  caught  her  by  the 
wrist. 

"Why  do  you  talk  of  him?  Do  you  love  him?" 
he  said,  from  between  clenched  teeth. 


The  Device  of  Lord  Carford,  319 

She  looked  at  him,  half-angry,  half-wondering. 
Then  she  said, — 

"Yes." 

"  Nell  Gwyn's  lover  ?  "  said  Carford. 

Her  cheek  flushed  again,  and  a  sob  caught  her  voice 
as  it  came. 

"  Yes,"  said  she.     "  Nell  Gwyn's  lover." 

"  You  love  him  ?" 

"Always,  always,  always."  Then  she  drew  herself 
near  to  him  in  a  sudden  terror.  "  Not  a  word,  not  a 
word,"  she  cried.  "  I  don't  know  what  you  are,  I 
don't  trust  you  ;  forgive  me,  forgive  me  ;  but  what- 
ever you  are,  for  pity's  sake,  ah,  my  dear  lord,  for 
pity's  sake,  don't  tell  him.  Not  a  word." 

"  I  will  not  speak  of  it  to  M.  de  Fontelles,"  said 
Carford. 

An  amazed  glance  was  followed  by  a  laugh  that 
seemed  half  a  sob. 

"  M.  de  Fontelles  !  M.  de  Fontelles !  No,  no,  but 
don't  tell  Simon." 

Carford's  lips  bent  in  a  forced  smile  uglier  than  a 
scowl. 

"  You  love  this  fellow?  " 

"  You  have  heard." 

"  And  he  loves  you  ?  " 

The  sneer  was  bitter  and  strong.  In  it  seemed  now 
to  lie  Carford's  only  hope.  Barbara  met  his  glance 
an  instant,  and  her  answer  to  him  was, — 

"  Go,  go." 

"  He  loves  you  ?" 

"  Leave  me.  I  beg  you  to  leave  me.  Ah,  God, 
won't  you  leave  me?  " 

"  He  loves  you  ?  " 

Her  face  went  white.  For  awhile  she  said  nothing  ; 
then  in  a  calm  quiet  voice,  whence  all  life  and  feeling, 
almost  all  intelligence,  seemed  to  have  gone,  she  an- 
swered,— 

"  I  think  not,  my  lord." 


32°  Simon  Dale. 

He  laughed.  "  Leave  me,"  she  said  again,  and  he, 
in  grace  of  what  manhood  there  was  in  him,  turned  on 
his  heel  and  went.  She  stood  alone,  there  on  the  ter- 
race. 

Ah,  if  God  had  let  me  be  there  !  Then  she 
should  not  have  stood  desolate  nor  flung  herself  again 
on  the  marble  seat.  Then  she  should  not  have  wept  as 
though  her  heart  broke,  and  all  the  world  were  empty. 
If  I  had  been  there,  not  the  cold  marble  should  have 
held  her,  and  for  every  sweetest  tear  there  should  have 
been  a  sweeter  kiss.  Grief  should  have  been  drowned 
in  joy,  while  love  leapt  to  love  in  the  fulness  of 
delight.  Alas  for  pride,  breeder  of  misery  !  Not  life 
itself  is  so  long  as  to  give  atonement  to  her  for  that 
hour  ;  though  she  has  said  that  one  moment,  a  certain 
moment,  was  enough. 


CHAPTER  XXm. 
A  Pleasant  Penitence* 

THERE  was  this  great  comfort  in  the  Vicar's  society 
that,  having  once  and  for  all  stated  the  irrefutable 
proposition  which  I  have  recorded,  he  let  the  matter 
alone.  Nothing  was  further  from  his  thoughts  than 
to  argue  on  it,  unless  it  might  be  to  take  any  action 
in  regard  to  it.  To  say  the  truth,  and  I  mean  no  un- 
kindness  to  him  in  saying  it,  the  affair  did  not  greatly 
engage  his  thoughts.  Had  Betty  Nasroth  dealt  with 
it,  the  case  would  doubtless  have  been  altered,  and 
he  would  have  followed  its  fortune  with  a  zest  as  keen 
as  that  he  had  bestowed  on  my  earlier  unhappy  pas- 
sion. But  the  prophecy  had  stopped  short,  and  all 
that  was  of  moment  for  the  Vicar  in  my  career, 
whether  in  love,  war,  or  State,  was  finished ;  I  had 
done  and  undergone  what  fate  declared  and  demanded, 
and  must  now  live  in  gentle  resignation.  Indeed  I 
think  that  in  his  inmost  heart  he  wondered  a  little 
to  find  me  living  on  at  all.  This  attitude  was  very 
well  for  him,  and  I  found  some  amusement  in  it  even 
while  I  chafed  at  his  composed  acquiescence  in  my 
misfortunes.  But  at  times  I  grew  impatient,  and 
would  fling  myself  out  of  the  house,  crying,  "  Plague 
on  it,  is  this  old  crone  not  only  to  drive  me  into  folly, 
but  to  forbid  me  a  return  to  wisdom  ?  " 

In  such  a  mood  I  had  left  him,  to  wander  by  myself 
about  the  lanes,  while  he  sat  under  the  porch  of  his 
house  with  a  great  volume  open  on  his  knees.  The 


322  Simon  Dale* 

book  treated  of  Vaticination  in  all  its  branches,  and 
the  Vicar  read  diligently,  being  so  absorbed  in  his 
study  that  he  did  not  heed  the  approach  of  feet,  and 
looked  up  at  last  with  a  start.  M.  de  Fontelles  stood 
there,  sent  on  from  the  inn  to  the  parsonage  in  the 
progress  of  his  search  for  me. 

"  I  am  called  Georges  de  Fontelles,  sir,"  he  be- 
gan. 

"  I  am  the  Vicar  of  this  parish,  at  your  service,  sir," 
returned  the  Vicar,  courteously. 

"  I  serve  the  King  of  France,  but  have  at  this  time 
the  honour  of  being  employed  by  his  Majesty  the  King 
of  England." 

"  I  trust,  sir,"  observed  the  Vicar,  mildly,  "  that  the 
employment  is  an  honour. 

"  Your  loyalty  should  tell  you  so  much." 

"We  are  commanded  to  honour  the  King,  but  I 
read  nowhere  that  we  must  honour  all  that  the  King 
does." 

"  Such  distinctions,  sir,  lead  to  disaffection,  and 
even  to  rebellion,"  said  Fontelles,  severely. 

"  I  am  very  glad  of  it,"  remarked  the  Vicar,  com- 
placently. 

I  had  told  my  old  friend  nothing  of  what  concerned 
Barbara ;  the  secret  was  not  mine ;  therefore  he  had 
nothing  against  M.  de  Fontelles;  yet  it  seemed  as 
though  a  good  quarrel  could  be  found  on  the  score  of 
general  principles.  It  is  strange  how  many  men  give 
their  heads  for  them  and  how  few  can  give  a  reason  ; 
but  God  provides  every  man  with  a  head,  and  since 
the  stock  of  brains  will  not  supply  all  we  draw  lots  for 
a  share  in  it.  Yes,  a  pretty  quarrel  promised  ;  but  a 
moment  later,  Fontelles,  seeing  no  prospect  of  sport 
in  falling  out  with  an  old  man  of  sacred  profession, 
and  amused,  in  spite  of  his  principles,  by  the  Vicar's 
whimsical  talk,  chose  to  laugh  rather  than  to  storm, 
and  said  with  a  chuckle, — 


A  Pleasant  Penitence*  323 

"  Well,  kings  are  like  other  men." 

"  Very  like,"  agreed  the  Vicar.  "  In  what  can  I 
serve  you,  sir  ?" 

"  I  seek  Mr.  Simon  Dale,"  answered  Fontelles. 

"Ah,  Simon!  Poor  Simon!  What  would  you 
with  the  lad,  sir?  " 

"I  will  tell  that  to  him.  Why  do  you  call  him 
poor?" 

"  He  has  been  deluded  by  a  high-sounding  prophecy, 
and  it  has  come  to  little."  The  Vicar  shook  his  head 
in  gentle  regret. 

"He  is  no  worse  off,  sir,  than  a  man  who  marries," 
said  Fontelles,  with  a  smile. 

"  Nor,  it  may  be,  than  one  who  is  born,"  said  the 
Vicar,  sighing.  • 

"  Nor  even  than  one  who  dies,"  hazarded  the  French- 
man. 

"  Sir,  sir,  let  us  not  be  irreligious,"  implored  the 
Vicar,  smiling. 

The  quarrel  was  most  certainly  over.  Fontelles  sat 
down  by  the  Vicar's  side. 

"  Yet,  sir,"  said  he,  "  God  made  the  world." 

"  It  is  full  as  good  a  world  as  we  deserve,"  said  the 
Vicar. 

"  He  might  well  have  made  us  better,  sir." 

"  There  are  very  few  of  us  who  truly  wish  it,"  the 
Vicar  replied.  "A  man  hugs  his  sin." 

"The  embrace,  sir,  is  often  delightful." 

"  I  must  not  understand  you,"  said  the  Vicar. 

Fontelles'  business  was  proceeding  but  slowly.  A 
man  on  an  errand  should  not  allow  himself  to  talk 
about  the  universe.  But  he  was  recalled  to  his  task  a 
moment  later  by  the  sight  of  my  figure  a  quarter-of-a- 
mile  away  along  the  road.  With  an  eager  exclama- 
tion he  pointed  his  finger  at  me,  lifted  his  hat  to  the 
Vicar,  and  rushed  off  in  pursuit.  The  Vicar,  who  had 
not  taken  his  thumb  from  his  page,  opened  his  book 


324  Simon  Dale* 

again,  observing  to  himself,  "A  gentleman  of  some 
parts,  I  think." 

His  quarrel  with  the  Vicar  had  evaporated  in  the 
mists  of  speculation ;  Fontelles  had  no  mind  to  lose 
his  complaint  against  me  in  any  such  manner,  but  he 
was  a  man  of  ceremony  and  must  needs  begin  again 
with  me  much  as  he  had  with  the  Vicar.  Thus  ob- 
taining my  opportunity,  I  cut  across  his  preface,  say- 
ing brusquely, — 

"  Well,  I  am  glad  that  it  is  the  King's  employment 
and  not  M.  de  Perrencourt's." 

He  flushed  red. 

"We  know  what  we  know,  sir,"  said  he.  "If  you 
have  anything  to  say  against  M.  de  Perrencourt,  con- 
sider me  as  his  friend.  Did  you  cry  out  to  me  as  I 
rode  last  night  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  and  I  was  a  fool  there.  As  for  M.  de 
Perrencourt " 

"  If  you  speak  of  him,  speak  with  respect,  sir.  You 
know  of  whom  you  speak." 

"  Very  well.  Yet  I  have  held  a  pistol  to  his  head," 
said  I,  not,  I  confess,  without  natural  pride. 

Fontelles  started,  then  laughed  scornfully. 

"When  he,  and  Mistress  Quinton,  and  I,  were  in  a 
boat  together,"  I  pursued.  "  The  quarrel  then  was 
which  of  us  should  escort  the  lady,  he  or  I,  and 
whether  to  Calais  or  to  England.  And  although  I 
should  have  been  her  husband  had  we  gone  to  Calais, 
yet  I  brought  her  here." 

"  You're  pleased  to  talk  in  riddles." 

"  They're  no  harder  to  understand  than  your  errand 
is  to  me,  sir,"  I  retorted. 

He  mastered  his  anger  with  a  strong  effort,  and  in 
a  few  words  told  me  his  errand,  adding  that  by  Car- 
ford's  advice  he  came  to  me. 

"  For  I  am  told,  sir,  that  you  have  some  power  with 
the  lady." 


A  Pleasant  Penitence.  325 

I  looked  full  and  intently  in  his  face.  He  met  my 
gaze  unflinchingly.  There  was  a  green  bank  by  the 
roadside ;  I  seated  myself ;  he  would  not  sit,  but 
stood  opposite  to  me. 

"  I  will  tell  you,  sir,  the  nature  of  the  errand  on 
which  you  come,''  said  I,  and  started  on  the  task  with 
all  the  plainness  of  language  that  the  matter  required 
and  my  temper  enjoyed. 

He  heard  me  without  a  word,  with  hardly  a  move- 
ment of  his  body  ;  his  eyes  never  left  mine  all  the 
while  I  was  speaking.  I  think  there  was  a  sympathy 
between  us,  so  that  soon  I  knew  that  he  was  honest, 
while  he  did  not  doubt  my  truth.  His  face  grew 
hard  and  stern  as  he  listened  ;  he  perceived  now  the 
part  he  had  been  sent  to  play.  He  asked  me  but  one 
question  when  I  had  ended, — 

"My  Lord  Carford  knew  all  this?" 

"  Yes,  all  of  it,"  said  I.  "  He  was  privy  to  all  that 
passed." 

Engaged  in  talk,  we  had  not  noticed  the  Vicar's  ap- 
proach. He  was  at  my  elbow  before  I  saw  him  ;  the 
large  book  was  under  his  arm.  Fontelles  turned  to 
him  with  a  bow. 

"  Sir,"  said  he,  "you  were  right  just  now." 

"Concerning  the  prophecy,  sir?" 

"  No,  concerning  the  employment  of  kings,"  an- 
swered M.  de  Fontelles.  Then  he  said  to  me,  "  We 
will  meet  again,  before  I  take  leave  of  your  village." 
With  this  he  set  off  at  a  round  pace  down  the  road.  I 
did  not  doubt  that  he  went  to  seek  Mistress  Barbara, 
and  ask  her  pardon.  I  let  him  go  ;  he  would  not  hurt 
her  now.  I  rose  myself  from  the  green  bank,  for  I 
also  had  work  to  do. 

"  Will  you  walk  with  me,  Simon  ?  "  asked  the  Vicar. 

"Your  pardon,  sir,  but  I  am  occupied." 

"Will  it  not  wait?" 

"  I  do  not  desire  that  it  should." 


326  Simon  Dale* 

For  now  that  Fontelles  was  out  of  the  way,  Carford 
alone  remained.  Barbara  had  not  sent  for  me,  but 
still  I  served  her,  and  to  some  profit. 

It  was  now  afternoon  and  I  set  out  at  once  on  my 
way  to  the  Manor.  I  did  not  know  what  had  passed 
between  Barbara  and  Carford,  nor  how  his  passion  had 
been  stirred  by  her  avowal  of  love  for  me,  but  I  con- 
jectured that  on  learning  how  his  plan  of  embroiling 
me  with  Fontelles  had  failed,  he  would  lose  no  time 
in  making  another  effort. 

Fontelles  must  have  walked  briskly,  for  I,  although 
I  did  not  loiter  on  the  road,  never  came  in  sight  of 
him,  and  the  long  avenue  was  empty  when  I  passed 
the  gates.  It  is  strange  that  it  did  not  occur  to  my 
mind  that  the  clue  to  the  Frenchman's  haste  was  to 
be  found  in  his  last  question  ;  no  doubt  he  would  make 
his  excuses  to  Mistress  Quinton  in  good  time,  but  it 
was  not  that  intention  which  lent  his  feet  wings.  His 
errand  was  the  same  as  my  own  ;  he  sought  Carford, 
not  Barbara,  even  as  I.  He  found  what  he  sought,  I 
what  I  did  not  seek,  but  what,  once  found,  I  could  not 
pass  by. 

She  was  walking  near  the  avenue,  but  on  the  grass 
behind  the  trees.  I  caught  a  glimpse  of  her  gown 
through  the  leaves  and  my  quick  steps  were  stayed  as 
though  by  one  of  the  potent  spells  that  the  Vicar 
loved  to  read  about.  For  a  moment  or  two  I  stood 
there  motionless  ;  then  I  turned  and  walked  slowly 
towards  her.  She  saw  me  a  few  yards  off  and  it 
seemed  as  though  she  would  fly.  But  in  the  end  she 
faced  me  proudly ;  her  eyes  were  very  sad  and  I 
thought  that  she  had  been  weeping ;  as  I  approached 
she  thrust  something — it  looked  like  a  letter — into  the 
bosom  of  her  gown,  as  if  in  terror  lest  I  should  see  it. 
I  made  her  a  low  bow. 

"  I  trust,  madame,"  said  I,  "that  my  lady  mends  ?  " 

"  I  thank  you,  yes,  although  slowly." 


A  Pleasant  Penitence.  327 

"And  that  you  have  taken  no  harm  from  your  jour- 
ney ?  " 

"  I  thank  you,  none." 

It  was  strange,  but  there  seemed  no  other  topic  in 
earth  or  heaven  ;  for  I  looked  first  at  earth  and  then 
at  heaven,  and  in  neither  place  found  any. 

"  I  am  seeking  my  Lord  Carford,"  I  said,  at  last. 

I  knew  my  error  as  soon  as  I  had  spoken.  She 
would  bid  me  seek  Carford  without  delay  and  protest 
that  the  last  thing  in  her  mind  was  to  detain  me.  I 
cursed  myself  for  an  awkward  fool.  But  to  my  amaze- 
ment she  did  nothing  of  what  I  looked  for,  but  cried 
out  in  great  agitation,  and,  as  it  seemed,  fear, — 

"You  mustn't  see  Lord  Carford." 

"  Why  not  ?  "  I  asked.  "  He  won't  hurt  me.  Or  at 
least  lie  should  not,  if  my  sword  could  stop  his." 

"  It  is  not  that.  It  is — it  is  not  that,"  she  murmured, 
and  flushed  red. 

"  Well  then,  I  will  seek  him." 

"  No,  no,  no,"  cried  Barbara,  in  a  passion  that  fear 
— surely  it  was  that  and  nothing  else — made  imperious. 
I  could  not  understand  her,  for  I  knew  nothing  of  the 
confession  which  she  had  made,  but  would  not  for 
the  world  should  reach  my  ears.  Yet  it  was  not  very 
likely  that  Carford  would  tell  me,  unless  his  rage 
carried  him  away. 

"  You  are  not  so  kind  as  to  shield  me  from  Lord 
Carford's  wrath?"  I  asked,  rather  scornfully. 

"  No,"  she  said,  persistently  refusing  t'o  meet  my 
eyes. 

"  What  is  he  doing  here  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  He  desires  to  conduct  me  to  my  father." 

"  My  God,  you  won't  go  with  him  ?  " 

For  the  fraction  of  a  moment  her  dark  eyes  met 
mine,  then  turned  away  in  confusion. 

"  I  mean,"  said  I,  "  is  it  wise  to  go  with  him  ?" 

"  Of  course  you  meant  that,"  murmured  Barbara. 


328  Simon  Dale. 

"  M.  de  Fontelles  will  trouble  you  no  more,"  I 
remarked,  in  a  tone  as  calm  as  though  I  stated  the 
price  of  wheat  ;  indeed  much  calmer  than  such  a  vital 
matter  was  wont  to  command  at  our  village  inn. 

"What?"  she  cried.     "  He  will  not ?" 

"  He  didn't  know  the  truth.  I  have  told  him.  He 
is  an  honourable  gentleman." 

"You've  done  that  also,  Simon?"  She  came  a 
step  nearer  me. 

"  It  was  nothing  to  do,"  said  I.  Barbara  fell  back 
again. 

"  Yet  I  am  obliged  to  you,"  said  she.  I  bowed  with 
careful  courtesy. 

Why  tell  these  silly  things?  Everyman  has  such 
in  his  life.  Yet  each  counts  his  own  memory  a  rare 
treasure,  and  it  will  not  be  denied  utterance. 

"  I  had  best  seek  my  Lord  Carford,"  said  I,  more  for 
lack  of  another  thing  to  say  than  because  there  was 
need  to  say  that. 

"  I  pray  you — "  cried  Barbara,  again  in  a  marked  agi- 
tation. 

It  was  a  fair  soft  evening;  a  breeze  stirred  the  tree- 
tops,  and  I  could  scarce  tell  when  the  wind  whispered 
and  when  Barbara  spoke,  so  like  were  the  caressing 
sounds.  She  was  very  different  from  the  lady  of  our 
journey,  yet  like  to  her  who  had  for  a  moment  spoken 
to  me  from  her  chamber-door  at  Canterbury. 

"You  haven't  sent  for  me,"  I  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  I  suppose  "you  have  no  need  of  me?  " 

She  made  me  no  answer. 

"  Why  did  you  fling  my  guinea  in  the  sea?  "  I  said, 
and  paused. 

"  Why  did  you  use  me  so  on  the  way  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Why  haven't  you  sent  for  me  ?  "  I  whispered. 

She  seemed  to  have  no  answer  for  any  of  these 
questions.  There  was  nothing  in  her  eyes  now  save 
the  desire  of  escape.  Yet  she  did  not  dismiss  me, 


A  Pleasant  Penitence*  329 

and  without  dismissal  I  would  not  go.  I  had  for- 
gotten Carford  and  the  angry  Frenchman,  my  quarrel 
and  her  peril ;  the  questions  I  had  put  to  her  summed 
up  all  life  now  held. 

Suddenly  she  put  her  hand  to  her  bosom  and  drew 
out  that  same  piece  of  paper  which  I  had  seen  her 
hide  there.  Before  my  eyes  she  read,  or  seemed  to 
read,  something  that  was  in  it ;  then  she  shut  her 
hand  on  it.  In  a  moment  I  was  by  her,  very  close ; 
I  looked  full  in  her  eyes  and  they  fled  behind  cover- 
ing lids;  the  little  hand,  tightly  clenched,  hung  by 
her  side.  What  had  I  to  lose?  Was  I  not  already 
banned  for  forwardness?  I  would  be  forward  still 
and  justify  the  sentence  by  an  after  crime.  I  took 
the  hanging  hand  in  both  of  mine.  She  started,  and 
I  loosed  it,  but  no  rebuke  came  and  she  did  not  fly. 
The  far-off  stir  of  coming  victory  moved  in  my  blood  ; 
not  yet  to  win,  but  now  to  know  that  win  you  will 
sends  through  a  man  an  exultation,  more  sweet  be- 
cause it  is  still  timid.  I  watched  her  face — it  was 
very  pale — and  again  took  her  hand.  The  lids  of  her 
eyes  rose  now  an  instant,  and  disclosed  entreaty.  I 
was  ruthless;  our  hearts  are  strange,  and  cruelty  or 
the  desire  of  mastery  mingled  with  love  in  my  tight- 
ened grasp.  One  by  one  I  bent  her  fingers  back  ;  the 
crushed  paper  lay  in  a  palm  that  was  streaked  to  red 
and  white.  With  one  hand  still  I  held  hers,  with  the 
other  I  spread  out  the  paper.  "  You  mustn't  read  it," 
she  murmured.  "Oh,  you  mustn't  read  it."  I  paid  no 
heed  but  held  it  up.  A  low  exclamation  of  wonder 
broke  from  me.  The  scrawl  that  I  had  seen  at  Canter- 
bury now  met  me  again,  plain  and  unmistakable  in  its 
laborious  awkwardness.  "In  pay  for  your  dagger"  it 
had  said  before.  Were  five  words  the  bounds  of 
Nell's  accomplishment  ?  She  had  written  no  more 
now.  Yet  before  she  had  seemed  to  say  much  in  that 
narrow  limit ;  and  much  she  said  now. 


33°  Simon  Dale* 

There  was  long  silence  between  us ;  my  eyes  were 
intent  on  her  veiled  eyes. 

"You  needed  this  to  tell  you?"  I  said,  at  last. 

"You  loved  her,  Simon." 

I  would  not  allow  the  plea.  Shall  not  a  thing  that 
has  become  out  of  all  reason  to  a  man's  own  self, 
thereby  blazon  its  absurdity  to  the  whole  world? 

"  So  long  ago ! "  I  cried,  scornfully. 

"  Nay,  not  so  long  ago,"  she  murmured,  with  a  note 
of  resentment  in  her  voice. 

Even  then  we  might  have  fallen  out ;  we  were  in  an 
ace  of  it,  for  I  most^  brutally  put  this  question, — 

"  You  waited  here  for  me  to  pass  ?  " 

I  would  have  given  my  ears  not  to  have  said  it ; 
what  availed  that  ?  A  thing  said  is  a  thing  done,  and 
stands  forever  amid  the  irrevocable.  For  an  instant 
her  eyes  rlashed  in  anger  ;  then  she  flushed  suddenly, 
her  lips  trembled,  her  eyes  grew  dim,  yet  through  the 
dimness  mirth  peeped  out. 

"  I  dared  not  hope  you'd  pass,  Simon,"  she  whis- 
pered. 

"  I  am  the  greatest  villain  in  the  world  !  "  I  cried. 
"  Barbara,  you  had  no  thought  that  I  should  pass  !  " 

Again  came  silence.     Then  I  spoke,  and  softly, — 

"  And  you — is  it  long  since  you ?  " 

She  held  out  her  hands  towards  me,  and  in  an  in- 
stant was  in  my  arms.  First  she  hid  her  face,  but 
then  drew  herself  back  as  far  as  the  circle  of  my  arm 
allowed.  Her  dark  eyes  met  mine  full  and  direct  in  a 
confession  that  shamed  me  but  shamed  her  no  more ; 
her  shame  was  swallowed  in  the  sweet  pride  of  sur- 
render. 

"  Always,"  said  she,  "  always  ;  from  the  first  through 
all ;  always,  always."  It  seemed  as  though  she  could 
not  speak  that  word  enough. 

In  truth  I  could  scarcely  believe  it ;  save  when  I 
looked  in  her  eyes,  I  could  not  believe  it. 


Yor    KK.MKMBKR  ?  "  —  HAl.H 


A  Pleasant  Penitence*  331 

"  But  I  wouldn't  tell  you,"  she  said.  "  I  swore  you 
should  never  know.  Simon,  do  you  remember  how 
you  left  me  ?  " 

It  seemed  that  I  must  play  penitent  now. 

"  I  was  too  young  to  know —  "  I  began. 

"  I  was  younger  and  not  too  young,"  she  cried. 
"  And  all  through  those  days  at  Dover  I  didn't  know. 
And  when  we  were  together  I  didn't  know.  Ah, 
Simon,  when  I  flung  your  guinea  in  the  sea  you  must 
have  known !  " 

"  On  my  faith,  no,"  I  laughed.  "  I  didn't  see  the 
love  in  that,  sweetheart." 

"  I'm  glad  there  was  no  woman  there  to  tell  you 
what  it  meant,"  said  Barbara.  "And  even  at  Canter- 
bury I  didn't  know.  Simon,  what  brought  you  to  my 
door  that  night?  " 

I  answered  her  plainly,  more  plainly  than  I  could  at 
any  other  time,  more  plainly,  it  may  be,  than  even 
then  I  should, — 

"  She  bade  me  follow  her,  and  I  followed  her  so  far." 

"You  followed  her?" 

"  Aye.  But  I  heard  your  voice  through  the  door, 
and  stopped." 

"You  stopped  for  my  voice;  what  did  I  say?" 

"  You  sung  how  a  lover  had  forsaken  his  love.  And 
I  heard  and  stayed." 

"  Ah,  why  didn't  you  tell  me  then  ?  " 

"  I  was  afraid,  sweetheart." 

"  Of  what  ?     Of  what  ?  " 

"  Why,  of  you.     You  had  been  so  cruel." 

Barbara's  head,  still  strained  far  as  could  be  from 
mine,  now  drew  nearer  by  an  ace,  and  then  she 
launched  at  me  the  charge  of  most  enormity,  the  in- 
dictment that  justified  all  my  punishment. 

"You  had  kissed  her  before  my  eyes,  here,  sir, 
where  we  are  now,  in  my  own  Manor  park,"  said  Bar- 
bara. 


33 2  Simon  Dale* 

I  took  my  arms  from  about  her,  and  fell  humbly  on 
my  knee. 

"  May  I  kiss  so  much  as  your  hand  ?  "  said  I,  in  utter 
abasement. 

She  put  it  suddenly,  eagerly,  hurriedly,  to  my  lips. 

"Why  did  she  write  to  me?"  she  whispered. 

"  Nay,  love,  I  don't  know." 

"  But  I  know.     Simon,  she  loves  you." 

"  It  would  afford  no  reason  if  she  did.  And  I 
think " 

"  It  would  ;  and  she  does,  Simon,  of  course  she 
does." 

"  I  think  rather  that  she  was  sorry  for " 

"  Not  for  me !  "  cried  Barbara,  with  great  vehe- 
mence. "  I  will  not  have  her  sorry  for  me  !  " 

"  For  you  !  "  I  exclaimed,  in  ridicule  (It  does  not 
matter  what  I  had  been  about  to  say  before.)  "  For 
you  !  How  should  she  ?  She  wouldn't  dare  !  " 

"  No,"  said  Barbara.  One  syllable  can  hold  a  world 
of  meaning. 

"A  thousand  times,  no!"  cried  I. 

The  matter  was  thus  decided.  Yet  now,  in  quiet 
blood  and  in  the  secrecy  of  my  own  soul,  shall  I  ask 
wherefore  the  letter  came  from  Mistress  Gwyn,  to 
whom  the  shortest  letter  was  no  light  matter  and  to 
let  even  a  humble  man  go  some  small  sacrifice  ?  And 
why  did  it  come  to  Barbara  and  not  to  me  ?  And  why 
did  it  not  say  "  Simon,  she  loves  you,"  rather  than 
the  words  that  I  now  read,  Barbara  permitting  me  : 
"Pretty  fool,  he  loves  you"?  Let  me  not  ask;  not 
even  now  would  Barbara  bear  to  think  that  it  was 
written  in  pity  for  her. 

"  Yes,  she  pitied  you  and  so  she  wrote,  and  she  loves 
you,"  said  Barbara. 

I  let  it  pass.     Shall  a  man  never  learn  wisdom? 

"  Tell  me  now,"  said  I,  "  why  I  may  not  see  Car- 
ford?" 


A  Pleasant  Penitence.  333 

Her  lips  curved  in  a  smile  ;  she  held  her  head  high, 
and  her  eyes  were  triumphant. 

"  You  may  see  Lord  Carford  as  soon  as  you  will, 
Simon,"  said  she. 

"  But  a  few  minutes  ago—"  I  began,  much  puzzled. 

"  A  few  minutes  !  "  cried  Barbara,  reproachfully. 

"A  whole  lifetime  ago,  sweetheart  !  " 

"  And  shall  that  make  no  changes?  " 

"  A  whole  lifetime  ago,  you  were  ready  to  die  sooner 
than  let  me  see  him." 

"Simon,  you're  very —     He  knew,  I  told  him." 

"  You  told  him  ?  "  I  cried.     "  Before  you  told  me  ?  " 

*'  He  asked  me  before,"  said  Barbara. 

I  did  not  grudge  her  that  retort  ;  every  jot  of  her 
joy  was  joy  to  me  and  her  triumph  my  delight. 

"  How  did  I  dare  to  tell  him  ?  "  she  asked  herself 
softly.  "Ah,  but  how  have  I  contrived  not  to  tell  all 
the  world  ?  How  wasn't  it  plain  in  my  face  ?  " 

"  It  was  most  profoundly  hidden,"  I  assured  her. 
Indeed  from  me  it  had  been  ;  but  Barbara's  wit  had 
yet  another  answer. 

"You  were  looking  in  another  face,"  said  she. 
Then  as  the  movement  of  my  hands  protested,  remorse 
seized  on  her,  and  catching  my  hand  she  cried  impul- 
sively, "  I'll  never  speak  of  it  again,  Simon." 

Now  I  was  not  so  much  ashamed  of  the  affair  as  to 
demand  that  utter  silence  on  it ;  in  which  point  lies  a 
difference  between  men  and  women.  To  have  wan- 
dered troubles  our  .conscience  little,  when  we  have 
come  to  the  right  path  again ;  their  pride  stands  so 
strong  in  constancy  as  sometimes  (I  speak  in  trem- 
bling) even  to  beget  an  oblivion  of  its  falterings  and 
make  what  could  not  have  been  as  if  it  had  not.  But 
now  was  not  the  moment  for  excuse,  and  I  took  my 
pardon  with  all  gratitude  and  with  full  allowance  of 
my  offence's  enormity. 

Then  we  determined  that  Carford  must  immediately 


334  Simon  Dale* 

be  sought,  and  set  out  for  the  house  with  intent  to 
find  him.  But  our  progress  was  very  slow,  and  the 
moon  rose  in  the  skies  before  we  stepped  out  on  to 
the  avenue  and  came  in  sight  of  the  house  and  the 
terrace.  There  was  so  much  to  tell,  so  much  that  had 
to  slough  off  its  old  seeming  and  take  on  new  and 
radiant  apparel,  things  that  she  had  understood  and 
not  I,  that  I  had  caught  and  she  missed,  wherein  both 
of  us  had  gone  astray  most  lamentably  and  now  stood 
aghast  at  our  own  sightlessness.  Therefore  never 
were  our  feet  fairly  in  movement  towards  the  house, 
but  a  sudden — "  Do  you  remember?"  gave  them 
pause  again  ;  then  came  shame  that  I  had  forgotten 
or  indignation  that  Barbara  should  be  thought  to  have 
forgotten,  and  in  both  of  these  cases  the  need  for  ex- 
piation and  so  forth.  The  moon  was  high  in  heaven 
when  we  stepped  into  the  avenue  and  came  in  sight 
of  the  terrace. 

On  the  instant,  with  a  low  cry  of  surprise  and  alarm, 
Barbara  caught  me  by  the  arm,  while  she  pointed  to 
the  terrace.  The  sight  might  well  turn  us  even  from 
our  engrossing  interchange  of  memories.  There  were 
four  men  on  the  terrace,  their  figures  standing  out 
dense  and  black  against  the  old  grey  walls  which 
seemed  white  in  the  moonlight.  Two  stood  impassive 
and  motionless,  with  hands  at  their  sides;  at  their 
feet  lay  what  seemed  bundles  of  clothes.  The  other 
two  were  in  their  shirts;  they  were  opposite  one  an- 
other, and  their  swords  were  in  their  hands.  I  could 
not  doubt  the  meaning:  while  love  held  me  idle,  anger 
had  lent  Fontelles  speed  ;  while  I  sought  to  perfect  my 
joy,  he  had  been  hot  to  avenge  his  wounded  honour. 
I  did  not  know  who  were  the  two  that  watched  unless 
they  were  servants  ;  Fontelles'  fierce  mood  would  not 
stand  for  the  niceties  of  etiquette.  Now  I  could  re- 
cognise the  Frenchman's  bearing  and  even  see  Car- 
ford's  face,  although  distance  hid  its  expression.  I  was 


A  Pleasant  Penitence.  335 

amazed  and  at  a  loss  what  to  do.  How  could  I  stop 
them  and  by  what  right?  But  then  Barbara  gave  a 
little  sob  and  whispered, — 

"  My  mother  lies  sick  in  the  house." 

It  was  enough  to  loose  my  bound  limbs.  I  sprang 
forward  and  set  out  at  a  run.  I  had  not  far  to  go  and 
lost  no  time ;  but  I  would  not  cry  out  lest  I  might 
put  one  off  his  guard  and  yet  not  arrest  the  other's 
stroke.  For  the  steel  flashed,  and  they  fought,  under 
the  eyes  of  the  quiet  servants.  I  was  near  to  them 
now  and  already  wondering  how  best  to  interpose, 
when,  in  an  instant,  the  Frenchman  lunged,  Carford 
cried  out,  his  sword  dropped  from  his  hand,  and  he 
fell  heavily  on  the  gravel  of  the  terrace.  The  ser 
vants  rushed  forward  and  knelt  down  beside  him. 
M.  de  Fontelles  did  not  leave  his  place,  but  stood,  with 
the  point  of  his  naked  sword  on  the  ground,  looking 
at  the  man  who  had  put  an  affront  on  him  and  whom 
he  had  now  chastised.  The  sudden  change  that  took 
me  from  love's  pastimes  to  a  scene  so  stern,  deprived 
me  of  speech  for  a  moment.  I  ran  to  Fontelles  and 
faced  him,  panting  but  saying  nothing.  He  turned 
his  eyes  on  me;  they  were  calm,  but  shone  still  with 
the  heat  of  contest  and  the  sternness  of  resentment. 
He  raised  his  sword  and  pointed  with  it  towards  where 
Carford  lay. 

"  My  lord  there,"  said  he,  "  knew  a  thing  that  hurt 
my  honour,  and  did  not  warn  me  of  it.  He  knew 
that  I  was  made  a  tool  and  did  not  tell  me.  He  knew 
that  I  was  used  for  base  purposes  and  sought  to  use 
me  for  his  own  also.  He  has  his  recompense." 

Then  he  stepped  across  to  where  the  green  bank 
sloped  down  to  the  terrace,  and,  falling  on  one  knee, 
wiped  his  blade  on  the  grass. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 
A  Comedy  Before  the  King, 

ON  the  next  day  but  one  M.  de  Fontelles  and  I 
took  the  road  together  for  London.  Carford  lay  be- 
tween life  and  death  (for  the  point  had  pierced  his 
lung)  at  the  inn  to  which  we  had  carried  him  ;  he 
could  do  no  more  harm  and  occasion  us  no  uneasiness. 
On  the  other  hand  M.  de  Fontelles  was  anxious  to 
seek  out  the  French  Ambassador,  with  whom  he  was 
on  friendly  terms,  and  enlist  his  interest ;  first,  to  ex- 
cuse the  abandonment  of  his  mission,  and  in  the  sec- 
ond place,  to  explain  the  circumstances  of  his  duel 
with  Carford.  In  this  latter  task  he  asked  my  aid, 
since  I  alone,  saving  the  servants,  had  been  a  witness 
of  the  encounter,  and  Fontelles,  recognising  (now  that 
his  rage  was  past)  that  he  had  been  wrong  to  force  his 
opponent  to  a  meeting  under  such  conditions,  prayed 
my  testimony  to  vindicate  his  reputation.  I  could 
not  deny  him,  and  moreover,  though  it  grieved  me  to 
be  absent  from  Quinton  Manor,  I  felt  that  Barbara's 
interests  and  my  own  might  be  well  served  by  a  jour- 
ney to  London.  No  news  had  come  from  my  lord, 
and  I  was  eager  to  see  him  and  bring  him  over  to  my 
side  ;  the  disposition  of  the  King  was  also  a  matter  of 
moment  and  of  uncertainty;  would  he  still  seek  to 
gain  for  M.  de  Perrencourt  what  that  exacting  gen- 
tleman required,  or  would  he 'now  abandon  the  strug- 
gle in  which  his  instruments  had  twice  failed  him  ? 
His  Majesty  should  now  be  returning  from  Dover, 


A  Comedy  Before  the  King.  337 

and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  go  to  Court  and  learn 
from  him  the  worst  and  the  best  of  what  I  might  look 
for.  Nay,  I  will  not  say  that  the  pure  desire  to  see 
him  face  to  face  had  not  weight  with  me  ;  for  I  be- 
lieved that  he  had  a  liking  for  me,  and  that  I  should 
obtain  from  him  better  terms  in  my  own  person  than 
if  my  cause  were  left  in  the  hands  of  those  who  sur- 
rounded him. 

When  we  were  come  to  London  (and  I  pray  that  it 
be  observed  and  set  down  to  my  credit  that,  thinking 
there  was  enough  of  love-making  in  this  history,  I 
have  spared  any  narrative  of  my  farewell  to  Barbara, 
although  on  my  soul  it  was  most  moving)  M.  de  Fon- 
telles  at  once  sought  the  Ambassador's,  taking  my 
promise  to  come  there  as  soon  as  his  summons  called, 
while  I  betook  myself  to  the  lodging  which  I  had 
shared  with  Darrell  before  we  went  to  Dover.  I 
hoped  to  find  him  there  and  renew  our  friendship ; 
my  grudge  was  for  his  masters,  and  I  am  not  for  mak- 
ing an  enemy  of  a  man  who  does  what  his  service 
demands  of  him.  I  was  not  disappointed  ;  Robert 
opened  the  door  to  me,  and  Darrell  himself  sprang  to 
his  feet  in  amazement  at  the  sound  of  my  name.  I 
laughed  heartily  and  flung  myself  into  a  chair,  saying, 

"  How  goes  the  Treaty  of  Dover?  " 

He  ran  to  the  door  and  tried  it ;  it  was  close-shut. 

"  The  less  you  say  of  that,  the  safer  you'll  be,"  said 
he. 

"  Oho  !  "  thought  I,  "  then  I'm  not  going  to  market 
empty-handed.  If  I  want  to  buy,  it  seems  that  I  have 
something  to  sell !  "  And  smiling  very  good-humour- 
edly,  I  said, — 

"  What,  is  there  a  secret  in  it  ?  " 

Darrell  came  up  to  me  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"On  my  life,"  said  he,  "  I  didn't  know  you  were  in- 
terested in  the  lady,  Simon,  or  I  wouldn't  have  taken 
a  hand  in  the  affair." 


Simon  Dale, 

"  On  my  life,"  said  I,  "  I'm  obliged  to  you.  What 
of  Mile,  de  Querouaille?" 

"  She  has  returned  with  Madame." 

"But  will  return  without  Madame?" 

"  Who  knows  ?  "  he  asked,  with  a  smile  that  he  could 
not  smother. 

"  God  and  the  King,"  said  I.  "  What  of  M.  de  Per- 
rencourt  ?" 

"  Your  tongue's  hung  so  loose,  Simon,  that  one  day 
it'll  hang  you  tight." 

"  Enough,  enough.     What  then  of  Phineas  Tate  ?  " 

"  He  is  on  board  ship  on  his  way  to  the  plantations. 
He'll  find  plenty  to  preach  to  there." 

"  What !  Why,  there's  never  a  Papist  sent  now  ! 
He'll  mope  to  death.  What  of  the  Duke  of  Mon- 
mouth  ?  " 

"  He  has  found  out  Carford." 

"He  has?  Then  he  has  found  out  the  Secretary 
also  ?  " 

"  There  is  indeed  a  distance  between  his  Grace  and 
my  lord,"  Darrell  admitted. 

"  When  rogues  fall  out  !  A  fine  saying  that,  Dar- 
rell. And  what  of  the  King?  " 

"  My  lord  tells  me  that  the  King  swears  he  won't 
sleep  o'  nights  till  he  has  laid  a  certain  troublesome 
fellow  by  the  heels." 

"  And  where  is  that  same  troublesome  fellow?  " 

"  So  near  me  that,  did  I  serve  the  King  as  I  ought, 
Robert  would  now  be  on  his  way  with  news  for  my 
Lord  Arlington." 

"  Then  his  Majesty's  sentiments  are  mighty  unkind 
towards  me?  Be  at  peace,  Darrell.  I  am  come  to 
London  to  seek  him." 

"  To  seek  him  ?  Are  you  mad  ?  You'll  follow 
Phineas  Tate!" 

"  But  I  have  a  boon  to  ask  of  the  King.  I  desire 
him  to  use  his  good  offices  with  my  Lord  Quinton. 


A  Comedy  Before  the  King.  339 

For  I  am  hardly  a  fit  match  for  my  lord's  daughter, 
and  yet  I  would  make  her  my  wife." 

"1  wonder,"  observed  Darrell,  "that  you,  Simon, 
who,  being  a  heretic,  must  go  to  hell  when  you  die,  are 
not  more  careful  of  your  life." 

Then  we  both  fell  to  laughing. 

"Another  thing  brings  me  to  London,"  I  pursued. 
"  I  must  see  Mistress  Gwyn." 

He  raised  his  hands  over  his  head. 

"  Fill  up  the  measure,"  said  he.  "The  King  knows 
you  came  to  London  with  her  and  is  more  enraged  at 
that  than  all  the  rest." 

"  Does  he  know  what  happened  on  the  journey?" 

"  Why,  no,  Simon,"  smiled  Darrell.  "  The  matter  is 
just  that.  The  King  does  not  know  what  happened 
on  the  journey." 

"He  must  learn  it,"  I  declared.  "To-morrow  I'll 
seek  Mistress  Gwyn.  You  shall  send  Robert  to  take 
her  pleasure  as  to  the  hour  when  I  shall  wait  on  her." 

"  She's  in  a  fury  with  the  King,  as  he  with  her." 

"  On  what  account  ?  " 

"Already,  friend  Simon,  you're  too  wise!" 

"  By  heaven,  I  know  !  It's  because  Mile,  de  Que"rou- 
aille  is  so  good  a  Catholic?  " 

Darrell  had  no  denial  ready.  He  shrugged  his 
shoulders  and  sat  silent. 

But  although  I  had  told  Barbara  that  it  was  my  in- 
tention to  ask  an  audience  from  the  King,  I  had  not 
disclosed  my  purpose  of  seeing  Mistress  Nell.  Yet  it 
was  firm  in  my  mind — for  courtesy's  sake.  Of  a  truth 
she  had  done  me  great  service.  Was  I  to  take  it  as 
though  it  were  my  right,  with  never  a  word  of  thanks? 
Curiosity  also  drew  me,  and  that  attraction  which  she 
never  lost  for  me,  nor,  as  I  believe,  for  any  man  whose 
path  she  had  crossed.  I  was  sure  of  myself,  and  did 
not  fear  to  go.  Yet  memory  was  not  dead  in  me,  and 
I  went  in  a  species  of  excitement,  the  ghost  of  old 


340  Simon  Dale. 

feelings  dead  but  not  forgotten.  When  a  man  has 
loved,  and  sees  her  whom  he  loves  no  more,  he  will 
not  be  indifferent ;  angry  he  may  be,  or  scornful, 
amused  he  may  be,  and  he  should  be  tender ;  but  it 
will  not  be  as  though  he  had  not  loved.  Yet  I  had 
put  a  terrible  affront  on  her,  and  it  might  be  that  she 
would  not  receive  me. 

As  I  live,  I  believe  that  but  for  one  thing  she  would 
not.  That  turned  her,  by  its  appeal  to  her  humour. 
When  I  came  to  the  house  in  Chelsea,  I  was  con- 
ducted into  a  small  ante-chamber,  and  there  waited 
long.  There  were  voices  speaking  in  the  next  room, 
but  I  could  not  hear  their  speech.  Yet  I  knew  Nell's 
voice ;  it  had  for  me  always — aye,  still — echoes  of  the 
past.  But  now  there  was  something  which  barred  its 
way  to  my  heart. 

The  door  in  front  of  me  opened,  and  she  was  in  the 
room  with  me.  There  she  was,  curtseying  low  in 
mock  obeisance  and  smiling  whimsically. 

"  A  bold  man  !  "  she  cried.  "  What  brings  you 
here  ?  Art  not  afraid  ?  " 

"Afraid  that  I  am  not  welcome,  yet  not  afraid  to 
come." 

"A  taunt  wrapped  in  civility  !     I  do  not  love  it." 

"  Mistress  Nell,  I  came  to  thank  you  for  the  great- 
est kindness " 

"  If  it  be  kindness  to  help  you  to  a  fool  ! "  said 
Mistress  Nell.  "  What,  besides  your  thanks  to  me, 
brings  you  to  town?  " 

I  must  forgive  her  the  style  in  which  she  spoke  of 
Barbara.  I  answered  with  a  smile, — 

"  I  must  see  the  King.  I  don't  know  his  purposes 
about  me.  Besides,  I  desire  that  he  should  help  me 
to  my — fool." 

"  If  you're  wise  you'll  keep  out  of  his  sight."  Then 
she  began  to  laugh.  "  Nay,  but  I  don't  know,"  said 
she.  Then  with  a  swift  movement  she  was  by  me, 


A  Comedy  Before  the  King.  341 

catching  at  my  coat  and  turning  up  to  me  a  face  full 
of  merriment.  "  Shall  we  play  a  comedy  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  As  you  will.     What  shall  be  my  part  ?  " 

"  I'll  give  you  a  pretty  part,  Simon.  Your  face  is 
very  smooth ;  nay,  do  not  fear,  I  remember  so  well 
that  I  needn't  try  again.  You  shall  be  this  French 
lady  of  whom  they  speak." 

"  I  the  French  lady  !     God  forbid  !  " 

"  Nay,  but  you  shall,  Simon.  And  I'll  be  the  King. 
Nay,  I  say  don't  be  afraid,  I  swear  you  tried  to  run 
away  then  !  " 

"  Is  it  not  prescribed  as  the  best  cure  for  temp- 
tation ?  " 

"  Alas,  you're  not  tempted  !  "  she  said,  with  a  pout. 
"  But  there's  another  part  in  the  comedy." 

"  Besides  the  King  and  Mademoiselle  !  " 

"  Why,  yes — and  a  great  part." 

"  Myself  by  chance?" 

"You!  No!  What  should  you  do  in  the  play? 
It  is  I— I  myself." 

"  True,  true.     I  forgot  you,  Mistress  Nell." 

"  You  did  forget  me,  Simon.  But  I  must  spare 
you,  for  you  will  have  heard  that  same  charge  of 
fickleness  from  Mistress  Quinton  and  it  is  hard  to 
hear  it  from  two  at  once.  But  who  shall  play  my 
part?  " 

"  Indeed  I  can  think  of  none  equal  to  it." 

"  The  King  shall  play  it !  "  she  cried,  with  a  trium- 
phant laugh  and  stood  opposite  to  me,  the  embodi- 
ment of  merry  triumph.  "  Do  you  catch  the  plot  of 
my  piece,  Simon  ?  " 

"  I  am  very  dull,"  I  confessed. 

"  It's  your  condition,  not  your  nature,  Simon,"  Nell 
was  so  good  as  to  say.  "  A  man  in  love  is  always 
dull,  save  to  one  woman,  and  she's  stark-mad.  Come, 
can  you  feign  an  inclination  for  me,  or  have  you  for- 
got the  trick?" 


342  Simon  Dale. 

At  the  moment  she  spoke  the  handle  of  the  door 
turned.  Again  it  turned  and  was  rattled. 

"  I  locked  it,"  whispered  Nell,  her  eyes  full  of  mis- 
chief. 

Again  and  most  impatiently  the  handle  was  twisted 
to  and  fro. 

"  Pat,  pat,  how  pat  he  comes  !  "  she  whispered. 

A  last  loud  rattle  followed,  then  a  voice  cried  in  an- 
ger, "Open  it,  Ibid  you  open  it." 

"God  help  us!"  I  exclaimed,  in  sad  perplexity. 
"It's  the  King?" 

"Yes,  it's  the  King,  and,  Simon,  the  piece  begins. 
Look  as  terrified  as  you  can.  It's  the  King." 

"  Open,  I  say,  open  ! "  cried  the  King,  with  a  thun- 
dering knock. 

I  understood  now  that  he  had  been  in  the  other 
room,  and  that  she  had  left  his  society  to  come  to  me  ; 
but  I  understood  dimly  only  why  she  had  locked  the 
door,  and  why  she  now  was  so  slow  in  opening  it. 
Yet  I  set  my  wits  to  work,  and  for  further  aid  watched 
her  closely.  She  was  worth  the  watching.  Without 
aid  of  paints  or  powders,  of  scene  or  theatre,  she 
transformed  her  air,  her  manner,  aye,  her  face  also. 
Alarm  and  terror  showed  in  her  eyes  as  she  stole  in 
fearful  fashion  across  the  room,  unlocked  the  door 
and  drew  it  open,  herself  standing  by  it,  stiff  and  rigid 
in  what  seemed  shame  or  consternation.  The  agita- 
tion she  feigned  found  some  reality  in  me.  I  was  not 
ready  for  the  thing,  although  I  had  been  warned  by 
the  voice  outside.  When  the  King  stood  in  the  door- 
way, I  wished  myself  a  thousand  miles  away. 

The  King  was  silent  for  several  moments;  he 
seemed  to  me  to  repress  a  passion  which,  let  loose, 
might  hurry  him  to  violence.  When  he  spoke,  he 
was  smiling  ironically  and  his  voice  was  calm. 

"  How  comes  this  gentleman  here?"  he  asked. 

The  terror   that  Nell  had  so  artfully  assumed  she 


A  Comedy  Before  the  King.  343 

appeared  now,  with  equal  art,  to  defy  or  conquer. 
She  answered  him  with  angry  composure. 

"  Why  shouldn't  Mr.  Dale  be  here,  Sir  ? "  she 
asked.  "  Am  I  to  see  no  friends  ?  Am  I  to  live  all 
alone  ?" 

"  Mr.  Dale  is  no  friend  of  mine " 

"Sir — "  I  began,  but  his  raised  hand  stayed  me. 

" — and  you  have  no  need  of  friends  when  I  am 
here." 

"  Your  Majesty,"  said  she,  "  came  to  say  farewell ; 
Mr.  Dale  was  but  half-an-hour  too  soon." 

This  answer  showed  me  the  game.  If  he  had  come 
to  bid  her  farewell — why,  I  understood  now  the  parts 
in  the  comedy.  If  he  left  her  for  the  Frenchwoman, 
why  should  she  not  turn  to  Simon  Dale?  The  King 
bit  his  lip.  He  also  understood  her  answer. 

"  You  lose  no  time,  mistress,"  he  said,  with  an  un- 
easy laugh. 

"  I've  lost  too  much  already,"  she  flashed  back. 

"  With  me  ? "  he  asked,  and  was  answered  by  a 
sweeping  curtsey  and  a  scornful  smile. 

"  You're  a  bold  man,  Mr.  Dale,"  said  he.  "  I  knew 
it  before  and  am  now  most  convinced  of  it." 

"  I  didn't  expect  to  meet  your  Majesty  here,"  said 
I,  sincerely. 

"  I  don't  mean  that.  You're  bold  to  come  here  at 
all." 

"  Mistress  Gwyn  is  very  kind  to  me,"  said  I.  I 
would  play  my  part  and  would  not  fail  her,  and  I 
directed  a  timid  yet  amorous  glance  at  Nell.  The 
glance  reached  Nell,  but  on  its  way  it  struck  the  King. 
He  was  patient  of  rivals,  they  said,  but  he  frowned 
now  and  muttered  an  oath.  Nell  broke  into  sudden 
laughter.  It  sounded  forced  and  unreal.  It  was 
meant  so  to  sound. 

"  We're  old  friends,"  said  she,  "  Simon  and  I.  We 
were  friends  before  I  was  what  I  am.  We're  still 


344  Simon  Dale. 

friends,  now  that  I  am  what  I  am.     Mr.  Dale  escorted 
me  from  Dover  to  London." 

"  He  is  an  attentive  squire,"  sneered  the  King. 

"  He  hardly  left  my  side,"  said  Nell. 

"  You  were  hampered  with  a  companion." 

"  Of  a  truth  I  hardly  noticed  it,"  cried  Nelly,  with 
magnificent  falsehood.  I  seconded  her  efforts  with  a 
shrug  and  a  cunning  smile. 

"  I  begin  to  understand,"  said  the  King.  "  And 
when  my  farewell  has  been  said,  what  then  ?  " 

"  I  thought  that  it  had  been  said  half-an-hour  ago," 
she  exclaimed.  "  Wasn't  it  ?  " 

"  You  were  anxious  to  hear  it,  and  so  seemed  to 
hear  it,"  said  he,  uneasily. 

She  turned  to  me  with  a  grave  face  and  tender  eyes. 

"  Didn't  I  tell  you  here,  just  now,  how  the  King 
parted  from  me?  " 

I  was  to  take  the  stage  now,  it  seemed. 

"Aye,  you  told  me,"  said  I,  playing  the  agitated 
lover  as  best  I  could.  "  You  told  me  that — that — but 
I  cannot  speak  before  his  Majesty."  And  I  ended  in 
a  most  rare  confusion. 

"  Speak,  sir,"  he  commanded,  harshly  and  curtly. 

"  You  told  me,"  said  I,  in  low  tones,  "  that  the  King 
left  you.  And  I  said  I  was  no  king,  but  that  you 
need  not  be  left  alone."  My  eyes  fell  to  the  ground 
in  pretended  fear. 

The  swiftest  glance  from   Nell  applauded   me.      1 
would  have  been  sorry  for  him  and  ashamed  for  my 
self  had  I  not  remembered  M.  de  Perrencourt  and  our 
voyage  to  Calais.     In  that  thought  I  steeled  myself  to 
hardness,  and  bade  conscience  be  still. 

A  long  silence  followed.  Then  the  King  drew  near 
to  Nell.  With  a  rare  stroke  of  skill  she  seemed  to 
shrink  away  from  him  and  edged  towards  me,  as 
though  she  would  take  refuge  in  my  arms  from  his 
anger  or  his  coldness. 


A  Comedy  Before  the  King.  345 

"  Come,  I've  never  hurt  you,  Nelly,"  said  he. 

Alas,  that  art  should  outstrip  nature  !  Never  have 
I  seen  portrayed  so  finely  the  resentment  of  a  love 
that,  however  greatly  wounded,  is  still  love,  that,  even 
in  turning  away,  longs  to  turn  back,  that  calls  even  in 
forbidding,  and  in  refusing  breathes  the  longing  to 
assent.  Her  feet  still  came  towards  me,  but  her  eyes 
were  on  the  King. 

"  You  sent  me  away,"  she  whispered,  as  she  moved 
towards  me  and  looked  where  the  King  was. 

"  I  was  in  a  temper,"  said  he.  Then  he  turned  to 
me,  saying  "  Pray  leave  us,  sir." 

I  take  it  that  I  must  have  obeyed,  but  Nell  sprang 
suddenly  forward,  caught  my  hand,  and,  holding  it, 
faced  the  King. 

"  He  sha'n't  go ;  or,  if  you  send  him  away,  I'll  go 
with  him." 

The  King  frowned  heavily,  but  did  not  speak.  She 
went  on,  choking  down  a  sob — aye,  a  true  sob ;  the 
part  she  played  moved  her,  and  beneath  her  acting 
there  was  a  reality.  She  fought  for  her  power  over 
him  and  now  was  the  test  of  it. 

"Will  you  take  my  friendships  from  me  as  well  as 
my —  Oh,  I  won't  endure  it !" 

She  had  given  him  his  hint  in  the  midst  of  what 
seemed  her  greatest  wrath.  His  frown  persisted,  but 
a  smile  bent  his  lips  again. 

"  Mr.  Dale,"  said  he,  "  it  is  hard  to  reason  with  a 
lady  before  another  gentleman.  I  was  wrong  to  bid 
you  go.  But  will  you  surfer  me  to  retire  to  that  room 
again  ?" 

I  bowed  low. 

"  And,"  he  went  on,  "  will  you  excuse  our  hostess' 
presence  for  awhile  ?  " 

I  bowed  again. 

"  No,  I  won't  go  with  you,"  cried  Nell. 

"  Nay,  but,  Nelly,  you  will,"    said  he,  smiling  now. 


34&  Simon  Dale* 

"  Come,  I'm  old  and  mighty  ugly,  and  Mr.  Dale  is  a 
strapping  fellow.  You  must  be  kind  to  tfie  unfortu- 
nate, Nelly." 

She  was  holding  my  hand  still.  The  King  took  hers. 
Very  slowly  and  reluctantly  she  let  him  draw  her 
away.  I  did  what  seemed  best  to  do ;  I  sighed  very 
heavily  and  plaintively,  and  bowed  in  sad  submission. 

"  Wait  till  we  return,"  said  the  King,  and  his  tone 
was  kind. 

They  passed  out  together,  and  I,  laughing  yet 
ashamed  to  laugh,  flung  myself  in  a  chair.  She  would 
not  keep  him  for  herself  alone — nay,  as  all  the  world 
knows,  she  made  but  a  drawn  battle  of  it  with  the 
Frenchwoman — but  the  disaster  and  utter  defeat 
which  had  threatened  her  she  had  averted,  jealousy 
had  achieved  what  love  could  not ;  he  would  not  let 
her  go  now,  when  another's  arms  seemed  open  for  her. 
To  this  success  I  had  helped  her.  On  my  life,  I  was 
glad  to  have  helped  her.  But  I  did  not  yet  see  how  I 
had  helped  my  own  cause. 

I  was  long  in  the  room  alone,  and  though  the  King 
had  bidden  me  await  his  return,  he  did  not  come  again. 
Nell  came  alone,  laughing,  radiant,  and  triumphant; 
she  caught  me  by  both  hands,  and  swiftly,  suddenly, 
before  I  knew,  kissed  me  on  the  cheek.  Nay,  come, 
let  me  be  honest ;  I  knew  a  short  moment  before,  but 
on  my  honour  I  could  not  avoid  it  courteously. 

"We've  won,"  she  cried.  "I  have  what  I  desire, 
and  you,  Simon,  are  to  seek  him  at  Whitehall.  He 
has  forgiven  you  all  your  sins  and — yes,  he'll  give  you 
what  favour  you  ask.  He  has  pledged  his  word  to  me." 

"Does  he  know  what  I  shall  ask?" 

"  No,  no,  not  yet.  Oh,  that  I  could  see  his  face  ! 
Don't  spare  him,  Simon.  Tell  him — why,  tell  him  all 
the  truth — every  word  of  it,  the  stark  bare  truth." 

"  How  shall  I  say  it?" 

"  Why,  that  you  love,  and  have  ever  loved,  and  will 


A  Comedy  Before  the  King.  347 

ever  love  Mistress  Barbara  Otiinton,  and  that  you  love 
not,  and  will  never  love,  and  have  never  loved,  no,  nor 
cared  the  price  of  a  straw  for  Eleanor  Gwyn." 

"  Is  that  the  whole  truth  ?  "  said  I. 

She  was  holding  my  hands  still,  she  pressed  them 
now  and  sighed  lightly. 

"  Why,  yes,  it's  the  whole  truth.  Let  it  be  the 
whole  truth,  Simon.  What  matters  that  a  man  once 
lived  when  he's  dead,  or  once  loved  when  he  loves  no 
more  ?  " 

"Yet  I  won't  tell  him  more  than  is  true,"  said  I. 

"You'll  be  ashamed  to  say  anything  else,"  she 
whispered,  looking  up  in  my  face. 

"  Now,  by  heaven,  I'm  not  ashamed,"  said  I,  and  I 
kissed  her  hand. 

"You're  not?" 

"  No,  not  a  whit.  I  think  I  should  be  ashamed,  had 
my  heart  never  strayed  to  you." 

"  Ah,  but  you  say  strayed  !  " 

I  made  her  no  answer,  but  asked  forgiveness  with  a 
smile.  She  drew  her  hand  sharply  away,  crying, — 

"  Go  your  ways,  Simon  Dale,  go  your  ways  ;  go  to 
your  Barbara,  and  your  Hatchstead,  and  your  dulness 
and  your  righteousness." 

"  We  part  in  kindness?  "  I  urged. 

For  a  moment  I  thought  she  would  answer  peev- 
ishly, but  the  mood  passed,  and  she  smiled  sincerely 
on  me  as  she  replied, — 

"Aye,  in  all  loving-kindness,  Simon;  and  when  you 
hear  the  sour  gird  at  me,  say — why  say,  Simon,  that 
even  a  severe  gentleman,  such  as  you  are,  once  found 
some  good  in  Nelly.  Will  you  say  that  for  me?  " 

"  With  all  my  heart." 

"  Nay,  I  care  not  what  you  say,"  she  burst  out, 
laughing  again.  "  Begone,  begone !  I  swore  to  the 
King  that  I  would  speak  but  a  dozen  words  to  you. 
Begone ! " 


34&  Simon  Dale. 

I  bowed  and  turned  towards  the  door.  She  flew  to 
me  suddenly,  as  if  to  speak,  but  hesitated.  I  waited 
for  her ;  at  last  she  spoke,  with  eyes  averted  and  an 
unaccustomed  embarrassment  in  her  air, — 

"  If — if  you're  not  ashamed  to  speak  my  name  to 
Mistress  Barbara,  tell  her  I  wish  her  well,  and  pray  her 
to  think  as  kindly  of  me  as  she  can." 

"  She  has  much  cause  to  think  kindly,"  said  I. 

"And  will  therefore  think  unkindly!  Simon,  I  bid 
you  begone." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  me,  and  I  kissed  it  again. 

"This  time  we  part  for  good  and  all,"  said  she. 
"  I've  loved  you,  and  I've  hated  you,  and  I  have  nearly 
loved  you.  But  it's  nothing  to  be  loved  by  me,  who 
love  all  the  world." 

"  Nay,  it's  something,"  said  I.     "  Fare  you  well." 

I  passed  out,  but  turned  to  find  her  eyes  on  me. 
She  was  laughing  and  nodding  her  head,  swaying  to 
and  fro  on  her  feet  as  her  manner  was.  She  blew  me 
a  kiss  from  her  lips.  So  I  went,  and  my  life  knew  her 
no  more. 

But  when  the  strict  rail  on  sinners,  I  guard  my 
tongue  for  the  sake  of  Nelly  and  the  last  kiss  she  gave 
me  on  my  cheek. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 
The  Mind  of  M.  de  Fontelles. 

As  I  made  my  way  through  the  Court  nothing 
seemed  changed  ;  all  was  as  I  had  seen  it  when  I  came 
to  lay  down  the  commission  that  Mistress  Gwyn  had 
got  me.  They  were  as  careless,  as  merry,  as  shame- 
less as  before  ;  the  talk  then  had  been  of  Madame's 
coming,  now  it  was  of  her  going;  they  talked  of  Dover 
and  what  had  passed  there,  but  the  treaty  was  dis- 
missed with  a  shrug,  and  the  one  theme  of  interest 
and  the  one  subject  of  wagers  was  whether  or  how 
soon  Mile,  de  Querouaille  would  return  to  the  shores 
and  the  monarch  she  had  left.  In  me  distaste  now 
killed  curiosity;  I  pushed  along  as  fast  as  the  throng 
allowed  me,  anxious  to  perform  my  task  and  be  quit 
of  them  all  as  soon  as  I  could.  My  part  there  was 
behind  me ;  the  prophecy  was  fulfilled,  and  my  ambi- 
tions quenched.  Yet  I  had  a  pleasure  in  the  remaining 
scene  of  the  comedy  which  I  was  to  play  with  the 
King;  I  was  amused  also  to  see  how  those  whom  I 
knew  to  be  in  the  confidence  of  the  Duke  of  York  and 
of  Arlington  eyed  me  with  mingled  fear  and  wariness, 
and  hid  distrust  under  a  most  deferential  civility. 
They  knew,  it  seemed,  that  I  had  guessed  their  secrets. 
But  I  was  not  afraid  of  them,  for  I  was  no  more  their 
rival  in  the  field  of  intrigue  or  in  their  assault  upon 
the  King's  favour.  I  longed  to  say  to  them,  "  Be  at 
peace.  In  an  hour  from  now  you  will  see  my  face  no 
more." 


35°  Simon  Dale* 

The  King  sat  in  his  chair,  alone  save  for  one  gen- 
tleman who  stood  beside  him.  I  knew  the  Earl  of 
Rochester  well  by  repute,  and  had  been  before  now 
in  the  same  company,  although,  as  it  chanced,  1  had 
never  yet  spoken  with  him.  I  looked  for  the  King's 
brother  and  for  Monmouth,  but  neither  was  to  be 
seen.  Having  procured  a  gentleman  to  advise  the 
King  of  my  presence,  I  was  rewarded  by  being  beck- 
oned to  approach  immediately.  But  when  he  had 
brought  me  there,  he  gave  me  no  more  than  a  smile, 
and,  motioning  me  to  stand  by  him,  continued  his 
conversation  with  my  Lord  Rochester  and  his  caresses 
of  the  little  dog  on  his  lap. 

"  In  defining  it  as  the  device  by  which  the  weak 
intimidate  the  strong,"  observed  Rochester,  "  the 
philosopher  declared  the  purpose  of  virtue  rather  than 
its  effect.  For  the  strong  are  not  intimidated,  while 
the  weak,  falling  slaves  to  their  own  puppet,  grow 
more  helpless  still." 

"  It's  a  just  retribution  on  them,"  said  the  King, 
"  for  having  invented  a  thing  so  tiresome." 

"  In  truth,  Sir,  all  these  things  that  make  virtue  are 
given  a  man  for  his  profit  and  that  he  may  not  go 
empty-handed  into  the  mart  of  the  world.  He  has 
stuff  for  barter;  he  can  give  honour  for  pleasure, 
morality  for  money,  religion  for  power." 

The  King  raised  his  brows  and  smiled  again,  but 
made  no  remark.  Rochester  bowed  courteously  to 
me,  as  he  added, — 

"  Is  it  not  as  I  say,  sir?"  and  awaited  my  reply. 

"  It's  better  still,  my  lord,"  I  answered.  "  For  he 
can  make  these  bargains  you  speak  of,  and,  by  not 
keeping  them,  have  his  basket  still  full  for  another 
deal." 

Again  the  King  smiled,  as  he  patted  his  dog. 

"Very  just,  sir,  very  just,"  nodded  Rochester. 
"  Thus  by  breaking  a  villainous  bargain  he  is  twice  a 


The  Mind  of  M.  de  Fontetles.  35 1 

villain,  and  preserves  his  reputation  to  aid  him  in  the 
more  effectual  cheating  of  his  neighbour." 

"  And  the  damning  of  his  own  soul/'  said  the  King, 
softly. 

"  Your  Majesty  is  Defender  of  the  Faith.  I  will 
not  meddle  with  your  high  office,"  said  Rochester 
with  a  laugh.  "  For  my  own  part  I  suffer  from  a 
hurtful  sincerity;  being  known  for  a  rogue  by  all  the 
town  I  am  become  the  most  harmless  fellow  in  your 
Majesty's  dominions.  As  Mr.  Dale  here  says — I  have 
the  honour  of  being  acquainted  with  your  name,  sir — 
my  basket  is  empty  and  no  man  will  deal  with  me." 

"  There  are  women  left  you,"  said  the  King. 

"  It  is  more  expense  than  profit,"  sighed  the  Earl. 
"Although  indeed  the  kind  creatures  will  most  read- 
ily give  for  nothing  what  is  worth  as  much." 

"  So  that  the  sum  of  the  matter,"  said  the  King, 
"  is  that  he  who  refuses  no  bargain  however  iniquitous 
and  performs  none  however  binding " 

"  Is  a  king  among  men,  Sir,"  interposed  Rochester, 
with  a  low  bow,  "  even  as  your  Majesty  is  here  in 
Whitehall." 

"  And  by  the  same  title  ?  " 

"Aye,  the  same  Right  Divine.  What  think  you  of 
my  reasoning,  Mr.  Dale  ?  " 

"  I  do  not  know,  my  lord,  whence  you  came  by 
it,  unless  the  Devil  has  published  a  tract  on  the 
matter." 

"Nay,  he  has  but  circulated  it  among  his  friends," 
laughed  Rochester.  "  For  he  is  in  no  need  of  money 
from  the  booksellers  since  he  has  a  grant  from  God  of 
the  Customs  of  the  world  for  his  support." 

"  The  King  must  have  the  Customs,"  smiled 
Charles.  "  I  have  them  here  in  England.  But  the 
smugglers  cheat  me." 

"And  the  penitents  him,  Sir.  Faith,  these  Holy 
Churches  run  queer  cargoes  past  his  officers — or  so 


35  2  Simon  Dale. 

they  say,"  and  with  another  bow  to  the  King,  and  one 
of  equal  courtesy  to  me,  he  turned  away  and  mingled 
in  the  crowd  that  walked  to  and  fro. 

The  King  sat  some  while  silent,  lazily  pulling  the 
dog's  coat  with  his  fingers.  Then  he  looked  up  at  me. 

"Wild  talk,  Mr.  Dale,"  said  he,  "yet  perhaps  not 
all  without  a  meaning." 

"  There's  meaning  enough,  Sir.  It's  not  that  I 
miss." 

"  No,  but  perhaps  you  do.  I  have  made  many  bar- 
gains ;  you  don't  praise  all  of  them  ?  " 

"  It's  not  for  me  to  judge  the  King's  actions." 

"  I  wish  every  man  were  as  charitable,  or  as  dutiful. 
But — shall  I  empty  my  basket  ?  You  know  of  some 
of  my  bargains.  The  basket  is  not  emptied  yet." 

I  looked  full  in  his  face ;  he  did  not  avoid  my  re- 
gard, but  sat  there  smiling  in  a  bitter  amusement. 

"  You  are  the  man  of   reservations,"  said  he.     "  I 
remember  them.     Be  at  peace  and  hold  your  place.. 
For  listen  to  me,  Mr.  Dale." 

"  I  am  listening  to  your  Majesty's  words." 

"  It  will  be  time  enough  for  you  to  open  your  mouth 
when  I  empty  my  basket." 

His  words,  and  even  more  the  tone  in  which  he 
spoke  and  the  significant  glance  of  his  eyes,  declared 
his  meaning.  The  bargain  that  I  knew  of  I  need  not 
betray  nor  denounce  till  he  fulfilled  it.  When  would 
he  fulfil  it  ?  He  would  not  empty  his  basket,  but 
still  have  something  to  give  when  he  dealt  with  the 
King  of  France.  I  wondered  that  he  should  speak  to 
me  so  openly;  he  knew  that  I  wondered,  yet,  though 
his  smile  was  bitter,  he  smiled  still. 

I  bowed  to  him  and  answered, — 

"  I  am  no  talker,  Sir,  of  matters  too  great  for  me." 

"  That's  well.  I  know  you  for  a  gentleman  of  great 
discretion,  and  I  desire  to  serve  you.  You  have  some- 
thing to  ask  of  me,  Mr.  Dale  ?  " 


The  Mind  of  M.  de  Fontelles.  353 

"  The  smallest  thing  in  the  world  for  your  Majesty, 
and  the  greatest  for  me." 

"  A  pattern  then  that  I  wish  all  requests  might  fol- 
low. Let  me  hear  it." 

"  It  is  no  more  than  your  Majesty's  favour  for  my 
efforts  to  win  the  woman  whom  I  love." 

He  started  a  little,  and  for  the  first  time  in  all  the 
conversation  ceased  to  fondle  the  little  dog. 

"  The  woman  whom  you  love  ?  Well,  sir,  and  does 
she  love  you  ?  " 

"  She  has  told  me  so,  Sir." 

"  Then  at  least  she  wished  you  to  believe  it.  Do  I 
know  this  lady  ?  " 

"  Very  well,  Sir,"  I  answered,  in  a  very  significant 
tone. 

He  was  visibly  perturbed.  A  man  come  to  his 
years  will  see  a  ready  rival  in  every  youth,  however 
little  other  attraction  there  may  be.  But  perhaps  I 
had  treated  him  too  freely  already  ;  and  now  he  used 
me  well.  I  would  keep  up  the  jest  no  longer. 

"  Orice,  Sir,"  I  said,  "  for  a  while  I  loved  where  the 
King  loved,  even  as  I  drank  of  his  cup." 

"  I  know,  Mr.  Dale.     But  you  say  '  once.' " 

"  It  is  gone  by,  sir." 

•'  But  yesterday  ?  "  he  exclaimed,  abruptly. 

"  She  is  a  great  comedian,  Sir ;  but  I  fear  I  seconded 
her  efforts  badly." 

He  did  not  answer  for  a  moment,  but  began  again 
to  play  with  the  dog.  Then  raising  his  eyes  to  mine 
he  said, — 

"You  were  well  enough;  she  played  divinely,  Mr. 
Dale." 

"  She  played  for  life,  Sir." 

"  Aye,  poor  Nelly  loves  me,"  said  he,  softly.  "  I 
had  been  cruel  to  her.  But  I  won't  weary  you  with 
my  affairs.  What  would  you  ?  " 

"  Mistress  Gwyn,  Sir.  has  been  very  kind  to  me." 


354  Simon  Dale. 

"  So  I  believe,"  remarked  the  King. 

"  But  my  heart,  Sir,  is  and  now  has  been  for  long 
irrevocably  set  on  another." 

"  On  my  faith,  Mr.  Dale,  and  speaking  as  one  man 
to  another,  I'm  glad  to  hear  it.  Was  it  so  at  Canter- 
bury ?  " 

"  More  than  ever  before,  Sir.  For  she  was  there 
and " 

"  I  know  she  was  there." 

"  Nay,  Sir,  I  mean  the  other,  her  whom  I  love,  her 
whom  I  now  woo.  I  mean  Mistress  Barbara  Quinton, 
Sir." 

The  King  looked  down  and  frowned  ;  he  patted  his 
dog,  he  looked  up  again,  frowning  still.  Then  a  queer 
smile  bent  his  lips  and  he  said  in  a  voice  which  was 
most  grave,  for  all  his  smile, — 

"You  remember  M.  de  Perrencourt  ?  " 

"  I  remember  M.  de  Perrencourt  very  well,  Sir." 

"  It  was  by  his  choice,  not  mine,  Mr.  Dale,  that  you 
set  out  for  Calais." 

"So  I  understood  at  the  time,  Sir." 

"  And  he  is  believed,  both  by  himself  and  others, 
to  choose  his  men — perhaps  you  will  allow  me  to.  say 
his  instruments,  Mr.  Dale — better  than  any  Prince  in 
Christendom.  So  you  would  wed  Mistress  Quinton  ? 
Well,  sir,  she  is  above  your  station." 

"  I  was  to  have  been  made  her  husband,  Sir." 

"  Nay,  but  she's  above  your  station,"  he  repeated, 
smiling  at  my  retort,  but  conceiving  that  it  needed  no 
answer. 

"  She's  not  above  your  Majesty's  persuasion,  or 
rather,  her  father  is  not.  She  needs  none." 

"  You  do  not  err  in  modesty,  Mr.  Dale." 

"  How  should  I,  Sir,  I  who  have  drunk  of  the  King's 
cup  ?  " 

"  So  that  we  should  be  friends?  " 

"  And  known  what  the  King  hid  ! " 


The  Mind  of  M.  de  Fonteltes.  355 

"  So  that  we  must  stand  or  fall  together?  " 

"And  loved  where  the  King  loved?" 

He  made  no  answer  to  that,  but  sat  silent  for  a 
great  while.  I  was  conscious  that  many  eyes  were  on 
us,  in  wonder  that  I  was  so  long  with  him,  in  specula- 
tion on  what  our  business  might  be,  and  whence  came 
the  favour  that  gained  me  such  distinction.  I  paid 
little  heed,  for  I  was  seeking  to  follow  the  thoughts 
of  the  King  and  hoping  that  I  had  won  him  to  my 
side.  I  asked  only  leave  to  lead  a  quiet  life  with  her 
whom  I  loved,  setting  a  bound  at  once  to  my  ambi- 
tion and  to  the  plans  which  he  had  made  concerning 
her.  Nay,  I  believe  that  I  might  have  claimed  some 
hold  over  him,  but  I  would  not.  A  gentleman  may 
not  levy  hush-money,  however  fair  the  coins  seem  in 
his  eyes.  Yet  I  feared  that  he  might  suspect  me,  and 
I  said, — 

"  To-day  I  leave  the  town,  Sir,  whether  I  have  what 
I  ask  of  you  or  not ;  and  whether  I  have  what  I  ask 
of  you  or  not  I  am  silent.  If  your  Majesty  will  not 
grant  it  me,  yet,  in  all  things  that  I  may  be,  I  am 
your  loyal  subject." 

To  all  this — perhaps  it  rang  too  solemn,  as  the 
words  of  a  young  man  are  apt  to  at  the  moments 
when  his  heart  is  moved — he  answered  nothing,  but, 
looking  up  with  a  whimsical  smile,  said, — 

"  Tell  me  now ;  how  do  you  love  this  Mistress 
Quinton  ?  " 

At  this  I  fell  suddenly  into  a  fit  of  shame  and  bash- 
ful embarrassment.  The  assurance  that  I  had  gained 
at  Court  forsook  me,  and  I  was  tongue-tied  as  any 
calf-lover. 

"  I — I  don't  know,"  I  stammered. 

"  Nay,  but  I  grow  old.  Pray  tell  me,  Mr.  Dale,"  he 
urged,  beginning  to  laugh  at  my  perturbation. 

For  my  life  I  could  not ;  it  seems  to  me  that  the 
more  a  man  feels  a  thing  the  harder  it  is  for  him  to 


35  6  Simon  Dale. 

utter;  sacred  things  are  secret,  and  the  hymn  must 
not  be  heard  save  by  the  deity. 

The  King  suddenly  bent  forward  and  beckoned. 
Rochester  was  passing  by,  with  him  now  was  the 
Duke  of  Monmouth.  They  approached ;  I  bowed 
low  to  the  Duke,  who  returned  my  salute  most  cava- 
lierly. He  had  small  reason  to  be  pleased  with  me 
and  his  brow  was  puckered.  The  King  seemed  to 
find  fresh  amusement  in  his  son's  bearing,  but  he 
made  no  remark  on  it,  and,  addressing  himself  to 
Rochester,  said, — 

"  Here,  my  lord,  is  a  young  gentleman  much  en- 
amoured of  a  lovely  and  most  chaste  maiden.  I  ask 
him  what  this  love  of  his  is — for  my  memory  fails — • 
and  behold  he  cannot  tell  me.  In  case  he  doesn't 
know  what  it  is  that  he  feels,  I  pray  you  tell  him." 

Rochester  looked  at  me  with  an  ironical  smile. 

"Am  I  to  tell  what  love  is?"  he  asked. 

"  Aye,  with  your  utmost  eloquence,"  answered  the 
King,  laughing  still  and  pinching  his  dog's  ears. 

Rochester  twisted  his  face  in  a  grimace,  and  looked 
appealingly  at  the  King. 

"  There's  no  escape  ;  to-day  I  am  a  tyrant,"  said  the 
King. 

"  Here  then,  youths,"  said  Rochester,  and  his  face 
was  smoothed  into  a  pensive  and  gentle  expression. 
"  Love  is  madness  and  the  only  sanity,  delirium  and 
the  only  truth,  blindness  and  the  only  vision,  folly 

and  the  only  wisdom.  It  is "  He  broke  off  and 

cried  impatiently,  "  I  have  forgotten  what  it  is." 

"  Why,  my  lord,  you  never  knew  what  it  is,"  said 
the  King.  "Alone  of  us  here,  Mr.  Dale  knows,  and 
since  he  cannot  tell  us,  the  knowledge  is  lost  to  the 
world.  James,  have  you  any  news  of  my  friend,  M.  de 
Fontelles?" 

"  Such  news  as  your  Majesty  has,"  answered  Mon- 
mouth. "  And  I  hear  that  my  Lord  Carford  will  not 
die." 


The  Mind  of  M.  de  Fontelles.  357 

"  Let  us  be  as  thankful  as  is  fitting  for  that,"  said 
the  King.  "  M.  de  Fontelles  sent  rne  a  very  uncivil 
message ;  he  is  leaving  England,  and  goes,  he  tells 
me,  to  seek  a  king  whom  a  gentleman  may  serve." 

"Is  the  gentleman  about  to  kill  himself,  Sir?" 
asked  Rochester,  with  an  affected  air  of  grave  con- 
cern. 

"  He's  an  insolent  rascal,"  cried  Monmouth,  angrily. 
"  Will  he  go  back  to  France  ?  " 

"  Why,  yes,  in  the  end,  when  he  has  tried  the  rest 
of  my  brethren  in  Europe.  A  man's  king  is  like  his 
nose;  the  nose  may  not  be  handsome,  James,  but  it's 
small  profit  to  cut  it  off.  That  was  done  once,  you 
remember " 

"  And  here  is  your  Majesty  on  the  throne,"  inter- 
posed Rochester,  with  a  most  loyal  bow. 

"  James,"  said  the  King,  "  our  friend  Mr.  Dale  de- 
sires to  wed  Mistress  Barbara  Quinton." 

Monmouth  started  violently  and  turned  red. 

"  His  admiration  for  that  lady,"  continued  the 
King,  "  has  been  shared  by  such  high  and  honour- 
able persons  that  I  cannot  doubt  it  to  be  well 
founded.  Shall  he  not  then  be  her  husband  ?" 

Monmouth's  eyes  were  fixed  on  me ;  I  met  his 
glance  with  an  easy  smile.  Again  I  felt  that  I,  who 
had  worsted  M.  de  Perrencourt,  need  not  fear  the 
Duke  of  Monmouth. 

"If  there  be  any  man,"  observed  Rochester,  "who 
would  love  a  lady  who  is  not  a  wife,  and  yet  is  fit  to 
be  his  wife,  let  him  take  her,  in  heaven's  name !  For 
he  might  voyage  as  far  in  search  of  another  like  her 
as  M.  de  Fontelles  must  in  his  search  for  a  Perfect 
King." 

"Shall  he  not  have  her,  James?"  asked  the  King  of 
his  son. 

Monmouth  understood  that  the  game  was  lost. 

"Aye,  Sir,  let  him  have  her,"  he  answered,  muster- 


358  Simon  Dale* 

ing  a  smile.  "And  I  hope  soon  to  see  your  Court 
graced  by  her  presence." 

Well,  at  that,  I,  most  inadvertently,  and  by  an  error 
in  demeanour  which  I  now  deplore  sincerely,  burst 
into  a  short  sharp  laugh.  The  King  turned  to  me 
with  raised  eyebrows. 

"  Pray  let  us  hear  the  jest,  Mr.  Dale,"  said  he. 

"  Why,  Sir,"  I  answered,  "  there  is  no  jest.  I  don't 
know  why  I  laughed,  and  I  pray  your  pardon  hum- 
bly." 

"Yet  there  was  something  in  your  mind,"  the  King 
insisted. 

"  Then,  Sir,  if  I  must  say  it,  it  was  no  more  than 
this :  if  I  would  not  be  married  in  Calais,  neither  will 
I  be  married  in  Whitehall." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  It  was  broken  by 
Rochester. 

"  I  am  dull,"  said  he.  "  I  don't  understand  that 
observation  of  Mr.  Dale's." 

"  That  may  well  be,  my  lord,"  said  Charles,  and  he 
turned  to  Monmouth,  smiling  maliciously  as  he  asked, 
"Are  you  as  dull  as  my  lord  here,  James,  or  do  you 
understand  what  Mr.  Dale  would  say  ?  " 

Monmouth's  mood  hung  in  the  balance  between 
anger  and  amusement.  I  had  crossed  and  thwarted 
his  fancy,  but  it  was  no  more  than  a  fancy.  And  I 
had  crossed  and  thwarted  M.  de  Perrencourt's  also  ; 
that  was  balm  to  his  wounds.  I  do  not  know  that  he 
could  have  done  me  harm,  and  it  was  as  much  from  a 
pure  liking  for  him  as  from  any  apprehension  of  his 
disfavour  that  I  rejoiced  when  I  saw  his  kindly 
thoughts  triumph  and  a  smile  come  on  his  lips. 

"Plague  take  the  fellow,"  said  he,  "I  understand 
him.  On  my  life  he's  wise  !  " 

I  bowed  low  to  him,  saying,  "  I  thank  your  Grace 
for  your  understanding." 

Rochester  sighed  heavily. 


The  Mind  of  M.  de  Fontelles.  359 

"This  is  wearisome,"  said  he.     "  Shall  we  walk?" 

"You  and  James  shall  walk,"  said  the  King.  "I 
have  yet  a  word  for  Mr.  Dale."  As  they  went  he 
turned  to  me  and  said,  "But  will  you  leave  us?  I 
could  find  work  for  you  here." 

I  did  not  know  what  to  answer  him.  He  saw  my 
hesitation. 

"  The  basket  will  not  be  emptied,"  said  he,  in  a  low 
and  cautious  voice.  "  It  will  be  emptied  neither  for 
M.  de  Perrencourt  nor  for  the  King  of  France.  You 
look  very  hard  at  me,  Mr.  Dale,  but  you  needn't 
search  my  face  so  closely.  I  will  tell  you  what  you 
desire  to  know.  I  have  had  my  price,  but  I  do  not 
empty  my  basket."  Having  said  this,  he  sat  leaning 
his  head  on  his  hands  with  his  eyes  cast  up  at  me  from 
under  his  swarthy  bushy  brows. 

There  was  a  long  silence  then  between  us.  For 
myself  I  do  not  deny  that  youthful  ambition  again 
cried  to  me  to  take  his  offer,  while  pride  told  me  that 
even  at  Whitehall  I  could  guard  my  honour  and  all 
that  was  mine.  I  could  serve  him ;  since  he  told  me 
his  secrets,  he  must  and  would  serve  me.  And  he 
had  in  the  end  dealt  fairly  and  kindly  with  me. 

The  King  struck  his  right  hand  on  the  arm  of  his 
chair  suddenly  and  forcibly. 

"  I  sit  here,"  said  he ;  "  it  is  my  work  to  sit  here. 
My  brother  has  a  conscience,  how  long  would  he  sit 
here?  James  is  a  fool,  how  long  would  he  sit  here  ? 
They  laugh  at  me  or  snarl  at  me,  but  here  I  sit,  and 
here  I  will  sit  till  my  life's  end,  by  God's  grace  or  the 
Devil's  help.  My  gospel  is  to  sit  here." 

I  had  never  before  seen  him  so  moved,  and  never 
had  so  plain  a  glimpse  of  his  heart,  nor  of  the  resolve 
which  lay  beneath  his  lightness  and  frivolity.  Whence 
came  that  one  unswerving  resolution  I  know  not ;  yet 
I  do  not  think  that  it  stood  on  nothing  better  than 
his  indolence  and  a  hatred  of  going  again  on  his 


360  Simon  Dale. 

travels.  There  was  more  than  that  in  it ;  perhaps  he 
seemed  to  himself  to  hold  a  fort  and  considered  all 
stratagems  and  devices  well  justified  against  the  en- 
emy. I  made  him  no  answer  but  continued  to  look 
at  him.  His  passion  passed  as  quickly  as  it  had  come 
and  he  was  smiling  again  with  his  ironical  smile  as  he 
said  to  me, — 

"  But  my  gospel  need  not  be  yours.  Our  paths 
have  crossed,  they  need  not  run  side  by  side.  Come, 
man,  I  have  spoken  to  you  plainly,  speak  plainly  to 
me."  He  paused  and  then,  leaning  forward,  said,— 

"Perhaps  you  are  of  M.  de  Fontelles'  mind?  Will 
you  join  him  in  his  search?  Abandon  it!  You  had 
best  go  to  your  home  and  wait.  Heaven  may  one 
day  send  you  what  you  desire.  Answer  me,  sir. 
Are  you  of  the  Frenchman's  mind?  " 

His  voice  now  had  the  ring  of  command  in  it  and  I 
could  not  but  answer.  And  when  I  came  to  answer 
there  was  but  one  thing  to  say.  He  had  told  me  the 
terms  of  my  service.  What  was  it  to  me  that  he  sat 
there,  if  honour  and  the  Kingdom's  greatness  and  all 
that  makes  a  crown  worth  the  wearing  must  go,  in 
order  to  his  sitting  there?  There  rose  in  me  at  once 
an  inclination  towards  him  and  a  loathing  for  the 
gospel  that  he  preached ;  the  last  was  stronger,  and, 
with  a  bow,  I  said, — 

"  Yes,  sir,  I  am  of  M.  de  Fontelles'  mind." 

He  heard  me,  lying  back  in  his  chair.  He  said 
nothing,  but  sighed  lightly,  puckered  his  brow  an 
instant,  and  smiled.  Then  he  held  out  his  hand  to 
me  and  I  bent  and  kissed  it. 

"  Good-bye,  Mr.  Dale,"  said  he.  "  I  don't  know 
how  long  you'll  have  to  wait.  I'm  hale  and — so's  my 
brother." 

He  moved  his  hand  in  dismissal,  and,  having  with- 
drawn some  paces,  I  turned  and  walked  away.  All 
observed  or  seemed  to  observe  me ;  I  heard  whispers 


The  Mind  of  M.  de  Fontelles.  36 1 

that  asked  who  I  was,  why  the  King  had  talked  so 
long  to  me,  and  to  what  service  or  high  office  I  was 
destined.  Acquaintances  saluted  me  and  stared  in 
wonder  at  my  careless  acknowledgment  and  the  quick 
decisive  tread  that  carried  me  to  the  door.  Now, 
having  made  my  choice,  I  was  on  fire  to  be  gone  ;  yet 
once  1  turned  my  head  and  saw  the  King  sitting  still 
in  his  chair,  his  head  resting  on  his  hands  and  a  slight 
smile  on  his  lips.  He  saw  me  look,  and  nodded  his 
head.  I  bowed,  turned  again,  and  was  gone. 

Since  then  I  have  not  seen  him,  for  the  paths  that 
crossed  diverged  again.  Yet,  as  all  men  know,  he  car- 
ried out  his  gospel.  There  he  sat  till  his  life's  end, 
whether  by  God's  grace  or  the  Devil's  help  I  know 
not.  But  there  he  sat,  and  never  did  he  empty  his 
basket  lest,  having  given  all,  he  should  have  nothing 
to  carry  to  market.  It  is  not  for  me  to  judge  him 
now  ;  but  then,  when  I  had  the  choice  set  before  me, 
there  in  his  own  palace,  I  passed  my  verdict.  I  do 
not  repent  of  it.  For  good  or  evil,  in  wisdom  or  in 
folly,  in  mere  honesty  or  the  extravagance  of  senti- 
ment, I  had  made  my  choice.  I  was  of  the  mind  of 
M.  de  Fontelles,  and  I  went  forth  to  wait  till  there 
should  be  a  king  whom  a  gentleman  could  serve. 
Yet  to  this  day  I  am  sorry  that  he  made  me  tell  him 
of  my  choice. 


CHAPTER  XXVL 
I  Come  Home. 

I  HAVE  written  the  foregoing  for  my  children's  sake 
that  they  may  know  that  once  their  father  played 
some  part  in  great  affairs,  and,  rubbing  shoulder  to 
shoulder  with  folk  of  high  degree,  bore  himself  (as  I 
venture  to  hope)  without  disgrace  and  even  with  that 
credit  which  a  ready  brain  and  hand  bring  to  their 
possessor.  Here  then  I  might  well  come  to  an  end 
and  deny  myself  the  pleasure  of  a  last  few  words  in- 
dited for  my  own  comfort  and  to  please  a  greedy  recol- 
lection. The  children,  if  they  read,  will  laugh.  Have 
you  not  seen  the  mirthful  wonder  that  spreads  on  a 
girl's  face  when  she  comes  by  chance  on  some  relic  of 
her  father's  wooing,  a  faded  wreath  that  he  has  given 
her  mother  or  a  nosegay  tied  with  a  ribbon  and  a 
poem  attached  thereto?  She  will  look  in  her  father's 
face  and  thence  to  where  her  mother  sits  at  her 
needle-work,  just  where  she  has  sat  at  her  needle-work 
these  twenty  years,  with  her  old  kind  smile  and  com- 
fortable eyes.  The  girl  loves  her,  loves  her  well,  but 
— how  came  father  to  write  those  words  ?  For  mother, 
though  the  dearest  creature  in  the  world,  is  not  slim, 
nor  dazzling,  nor  a  Queen,  nor  is  she  Venus  herself, 
decked  in  colours  of  the  rainbow,  nor  a  Goddess  come 
from  heaven  to  men,  nor  the  desire  of  all  the  world, 
nor  aught  else  that  father  calls  her  in  the  poem.  In- 
deed what  father  wrote  is  something  akin  to  what  the 
Squire  slipped  into  her  own  hand  last  night ;  but  it  is  a 
strange  strain  in  which  to  write  to  mother,  the  dearest 


I  Come  Home.  363 

creature  in  the  world,  but  no,  not  Venus  in  her  glory 
nor  the  Queen  of  the  Nymphs.  But  though  the 
maiden  laughs,  her  father  is  not  ashamed.  He  still 
sees  her  to  whom  he  wrote,  and  when  she  smiles 
across  the  room  at  him  and  smiles  again  to  see  her 
daughter's  wonder  all  the  years  fade  from  the  picture's 
face,  and  the  vision  stands  as  once  it  was  though  my 
young  mistress'  merry  eyes  have  not  the  power  to  see 
it.  Let  her  laugh.  God  forbid  that  I  should  grudge 
it  her !  Soon  enough  shall  she  sit  sewing  and  another 
laugh. 

Carford  was  gone,  well-nigh  healed  of  his  wound, 
healed  also  of  his  love,  I  trust,  at  least  headed  off  from 
it.  M.  de  Fontelles  was  gone  also,  on  that  quest  of 
his  which  made  my  Lord  Rochester  so  merry  ;  indeed 
I  fear  that  in  this  case  the  scoffer  had  the  best  of  it, 
for  he  whom  I  have  called  M.  de  Perrencourt  was  cer- 
tainly served  again  by  his  indignant  subject  and  that 
most  brilliantly.  Well,  had  I  been  a  Frenchman,  I 
could  have  forgiven  King  Louis  much  ;  and  I  suppose 
that,  although  an  Englishman,  I  do  not  hate  him 
greatly,  since  his  ring  is  often  on  my  wife's  finger  and 
I  see  it  there  without  pain. 

It  was  the  day  before  my  wedding  was  to  take 
place ;  for  my  lord,  on  being  informed  of  all  that  had 
passed,  had  sworn  roundly  that  since  there  was  one 
honest  man  who  sought  his  daughter,  he  would  not  re- 
fuse her  lest,  while  he  waited  for  better  things,  worse 
should  come.  And  he  proceeded  to  pay  me  many  a 
compliment,  which  I  would  repeat,  despite  of  modesty, 
if  it  chanced  that  I  remembered  them.  But  in  truth 
my  head  was  so  full  of  his  daughter  that  there  was  no 
space  for  his  praises,  and  his  well-turned  eulogy  (for 
my  lord  had  a  pretty  flow  of  words)  was  as  sadly 
wasted  as  though  he  had  spoken  it  to  the  statue  of 
Apollo  on  his  terrace. 

I  had  been  taking  dinner  with  the  Vicar,  and,  since 


364  Simon  Dale, 

it  was  not  yet  time  to  pay  my  evening  visit  to  the 
Manor,  I  sat  with  him  a  while  after  our  meal,  telling 
him  for  his  entertainment  how  I  had  talked  with  the 
King  at  Whitehall,  what  the  King  had  said,  and  what 
I,  and  how  my  Lord  Rochester  had  talked  finely  of  the 
Devil  and  tried  but  failed  to  talk  of  love.  He  drank 
in  all  with  eager  ears,  weighing  the  wit  in  a  balance 
and  striving  to  see,  through  my  recollection,  the  life 
and  the  scene  and  the  men  that  were  so  strange  to  his 
eyes  and  so  familiar  to  his  dreams. 

"  You  don't  appear  very  indignant,  sir,"  I  ventured 
to  observe  with  a  smile. 

We  were  in  the  porch,  and,  for  answer  to  what  I 
said,  he  pointed  to  the  path  in  front  of  us.  Following 
the  direction  of  his  finger  I  perceived  a  fly  of  a  species 
with  which  I,  who  am  a  poor  student  of  nature,  was 
not  familiar.  It  was  villainously  ugly,  although  here 
and  there  on  it  were  patches  of  bright  colour. 

"  Yet,"  said  the  Vicar,  "  you  are  not  indignant  with 
it,  Simon." 

"  No,  I  am  not  indignant,"  I  admitted. 

"  But  if  it  were  to  crawl  over  you " 

"  I  should  crush  the  brute,"  I  cried. 

"  Yes.  They  have  crawled  over  you  and  you  are  in- 
dignant. They  have  not  crawled  over  me,  and  I  am 
curious." 

"  But,  sir,  will  you  allow  a  man  no  disinterested 
moral  emotion  ?  " 

"  As  much  as  he  will,  and  he  shall  be  cool  at  the  end 
of  it,"  smiled  the  Vicar.  "  Now  if  they  took  my  bene- 
fice from  me  again  ! "  Stooping  down,  he  picked  up 
the  creature  in  his  hand  and  fell  to  examining  it  very 
minutely. 

"  I  wonder  you  can  touch  it,"  said  I,  in  disgust. 

"  You  did  not  quit  the  Court  without  some  regret, 
Simon,"  he  reminded  me. 

I  could  make  nothing  of  him  in  this  mood  and  was 


I  Come  Home.  365 

about  to  leave  him  when  I  perceived  my  lord  and 
Barbara  approaching  the  house.  Springing  up,  I  ran 
to  meet  them  ;  they  received  me  with  a  grave  air,  and, 
in  the  ready  apprehension  of  evil  born  of  a  happiness 
that  seems  too  great,  I  cried  out  to  know  if  there  were 
bad  tidings. 

"  There's  nothing  that  touches  us  nearly,"  said  my 
lord.  "  But  very  pitiful  news  is  come  from  France." 

The  Vicar  had  followed  me  and  now  stood  by  me  ;  I 
looked  up  and  saw  that  the  ugly  creature  was  still  in 
his  hand. 

"It  concerns  Madame,  Simon,"  said  Barbara.  "She 
is  dead  and  all  the  town  declares  that  she  had  poison 
given  to  her  in  a  cup  of  chicory-water.  Is  it  not  piti- 
ful?" 

Indeed  the  tidings  came  as  a  shock  to  me,  for  I  re- 
membered the  winning  grace  and  wit  of  the  unhappy 
lady. 

"  But  who  has  done  it?"  I  cried. 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  my  lord.  "  It  is  set  down  to 
her  husband  ;  rightly  or  wrongly,  who  knows?  " 

A  silence  ensued  for  a  few  moments.  The  Vicar 
stooped  and  set  his  captive  free  to  crawl  away  on  the 
path. 

"  God  has  crushed  one  of  them,  Simon,"  said  he. 
"  Are  you  content  ?  " 

"  I  try  not  to  believe  it  of  her,"  said  I. 

In  a  grave  mood  we  began  to  walk  and  presently,  as 
it  chanced,  Barbara  and  I  distanced  the  slow  steps  of 
our  elders  and  found  ourselves  at  the  Manor  gates 
alone. 

"  I  am  very  sorry  for  Madame,"  said  she,  sighing 
heavily.  Yet  presently,  because  by  the  mercy  of  Pro- 
vidence our  own  joy  outweighs  others'  grief  and  thus 
we  can  pass  through  the  world  with  unbroken  hearts, 
she  looked  up  at  me  with  a  smile  and  passing  her  arm 
through  mine  drew  herself  close  to  me. 


366  Simon  Dale* 

"Aye,  be  merry,  to-night  at  least  be  merry,  my 
sweet,"  said  I.  "  For  we  have  come  through  a  forest 
of  troubles  and  are  here  safe  out  on  the  other  side." 

"  Safe  and  together,"  said  she. 

"  Without  the  second,  where  would  be  the  first  ?  " 

"Yet,"  said  Barbara,  "  I  fear  you'll  make  a  bad  hus- 
band ;  for  here  at  the  very  beginning — nay,  I  mean 
before  the  beginning — you  have  deceived  me." 

"  I  protest — !  "  I  cried. 

"  For  it  was  from  my  father  only  that  I  heard  of  a 
visit  you  paid  in  London." 

I  bent  my  head  and  looked  at  her. 

"  I  would  not  trouble  you  with  it,"  said  I.  "  It  was 
no  more  than  a  debt  of  civility." 

"  Simon,  I  don't  grudge  it  to  her.  For  I  am  here 
in  the  country  with  you,  and  she  is  there  in  London 
without  you." 

"  And  in  truth,"  said  I,  "  I  believe  that  you  are 
both  best  pleased." 

"  For  her,"  said  Barbara,  "  I  cannot  speak." 

For  a  long  while  then  we  walked  in  silence,  while 
the  afternoon  grew  full  and  waned  again.  They  mock 
at  lovers'  talk ;  let  them,  say  I  with  all  my  heart,  so 
that  they  leave  our  silence  sacred.  But  at  last  Bar- 
bara turned  to  me  and  said  with  a  little  laugh, — 

"  Art  glad  to  have  come  home,  Simon  ?  " 

Verily  I  was  glad.  In  body  I  had  wandered  some 
way,  in  mind  and  heart  further,  through  many  dark 
ways,  turning  and  twisting  here  and  there,  leading  I 
knew  not  whither,  seeming  to  leave  no  track  by  which 
I  might  regain  my  starting-point.  Yet  although  I 
felt  it  not,  the  thread  was  in  my  hand,  the  golden 
thread  spun  here  in  Hatchstead  when  my  days  were 
young.  At  length  the  hold  of  it  had  tightened  and 
I,  perceiving  it,  had  turned  and  followed.  Thus  it 
had  brought  me  home,  no  better  in  purse  or  station 
than  I  went  and  poorer  by  the  loss  of  certain  dreams 


I  Come.  Home.  367 

that  haunted  me,  yet,  as  I  hope,  sound  in  heart  and 
soul.     I  looked  now  in  the   dark  eyes  that  were  set 
on  me  as  though  there  were  their   refuge,  joy,   and 
life;  she  clung  to  me  as  though   even   still  I  might 
leave  her.     But  the  last  fear  fled,  the  last  doubt  faded 
away,  and    a   smile  came  in    radiant  serenity  on  the 
lips  I  loved  as,  bending  down,  I  whispered, — 
"  Aye,  I  am  glad  to  have  come  home." 
But   there   was   one    thing  more   that  I  must  say. 
Her  head  fell  on  my  shoulder,  as  she  murmured, — 
"And  you  have  utterly  forgotten  her?  " 
Her  eyes  were    safely  hidden.     I    smiled    as  I  an- 
swered "  Utterly." 

See  how  I  stood !  Wilt  thou  forgive  me,  Nelly  ? 
For  a  man  may  be  very  happy  as  he  is  and  still  not 
forget  the  things  which  have  been.  "  What  are  you 
thinking  of,  Simon?"  my  wife  asks  sometimes  when 
I  lean  back  in  my  chair  and  smile.  "  Of  nothing, 
sweet,"  say  I.  And  in  truth  I  am  not  thinking ;  it  is 
only  that  a  low  laugh  echoes  distantly  in  my  ear. 
Faithful  and  loyal  am  I,  but — should  such  as  Nell 
leave  naught  behind  her? 


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